Skip to main content

Full text of "American lyrics"

See other formats 


Class : 

Book  T?  6 


&^gkE°_ 


COPmiGKr  DEPOSE 


AMERICAN     LYRICS 


AMERICAN    LYRICS 


CHOSEN   BY 

EDITH   RICKERT 

AND 

JESSIE  PATON 


GARDEN  CITY,  NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &   COMPANY 

1912 


ft* 


COPYRIGHT,     I9I  2,     BY 
DOUBLEDAY,     PAGE     &    COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into  foreign  languages, 
including  the  Scandinavian 


y 

©CU327999 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company  wish  to  make  note  of  their 
indebtedness  to  the  following  publishers  and  authors: 

D.  Appleton  &  Company,  for  permission  to  use  "Thanatopsis," 
"To  a  Waterfowl"  "To  the  Fringed  Gentian"  "Robert  of  Lincoln" 
and  "The  Planting  of  the  Apple  Tree"  by  William  Cullen  Bryant. 

Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  for  permission  to  use  "Concord 
Hymn"  "Waldeinsamkeit,"  "Brahma"  "Days"  "Each  and  All" 
"Forbearance,"  "Fate,"  "Give  all  to  Love,"  "Friendship,"  "The 
Thimble-Bee,"  by  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson;  "The  Tide  Rises,  The 
Tide  Falls,"  "The  Bells  of  Lynn,"  "The  Bridge,"  "The  Arrow  and 
the  Song,"  " Endymion,"  "A  Dutch  Picture,"  "Oliver  Basselin," 
"Chrysaor,"  "Song,"  "Possibilities,"  "My  Lost  Youth,"  by  Henry 
Wadsworth  Longfellow;  "Proem,"  "Ichabod,"  "The  Barefoot  Boy," 
"Lexington,"  "The  Trailing  Arbutus,"  "Unity,"  "LausDeo,"  "The 
Mayflowers,"  by  John  Greenleaf  Whittier;  "Old  Ironsides,"  "The 
Chambered  Nautilus,"  "The  Boys,"  by  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes;  "The 
Idler,"  "My  Mother's  Voice,"  "The  Latter  Rain,"  by  Jones  Very; 
"She  Came  and  Went,"  "Ode  Recited  at  the  Harvard  Commemora- 
tion," "In  the  Twilight"  "To  the  Dandelion,"  by  James  Russell 
Lowell;  "Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,"  by  Julia  Ward  Howe;  "A 
Spinster's  Stint"  "The  Blackbird,"  by  Alice  Cary;  "Nearer  Home" 
"Happy  Women,"  by  Phoebe  Cary;  "Bedouin  Song,"  by  Bayard 
Taylor;  "Pan  in  Wall  Street"  by  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman;  "Be- 
fore the  Rain,"  "After  the  Rain,"  "Tiger-Lilies,"  "The  Voice  of  the 
Sea,"  "A  Touch  of  Nature,"  "I'll  Not  Confer  with  Sorrow,"  "The 
Flight  of  the  Goddess,"  by  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich;  "The  Sandpiper" 
by  Celia  Thaxter;  "Grizzly,"  "Coyote,"  by  Francis  Bret  Harte; 
"Sibylline  Bartering,"  "Life,"  "Retrospect,"  "Opportunity,"  "The 
Reformer,"  by  Edward  Rowland  Sill;  "In  the  Haunts  of  Bass  and 
Bream,"  by  Maurice  Thompson;  "When  the  Girls  Come  to  the  Old 
House"  by  Richard  Watson  Gilder;  "Days  That  Come  and  Go," 
"Great  is  To-day,"    "At  the  Sign  of   the  Spade,"  by  John  Vance 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Cheney;  "The  Crowing  of  the  Red  Cock,"  by  Emma  Lazarus; 
"Meadow-Larks,"  by  Ina  Coolbrith;  "The  Grasshopper"  by  Edith 
M.  Thomas;  "Candlemas,"  "In  Extremis,"  by  Alice  Brown;  "Spring 
Beauties,"  by  Helen  Gray  Cone;  "Honeysuckles,"  by  Frank  Dempster 
Sherman;  "The  Wild  Ride,"  by  Louise  Imogen  Guiney;  "Twilight 
Song,"  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson;  "Gloucester  Moors,"  "Road- 
Hymn  for  the  Start,"  "The  Daguerreotype"  "Pandora's  Song" 
(Because  One  Creature,  etc.),  "Pandora's  Song,"  (I  stood  within  the 
heart  of  God,  etc.)  by  William  Vaughn  Moody;  "The  Stay-at-Home," 
"The  Singing  Man,"  by  Josephine  Preston  Peabody  (Mrs.  Lionel 
Marks). 

Horace  Traubel,  for  permission  to  use  "Give  Me  the  Splendid 
Silent  Sun,"  "  To  the  Man-of-war-bird,"  "O  Captain!  My  Captain!" 
"Darest  Thou  Now,  O  Soul,"  "Pioneers!  O  Pioneers!"  "I  Hear 
America  Singing,"  "In  Praise  of  Death,"  "Youth,  Day,  Old  Age 
and  Night,"  "Prayer  of  Columbus,"  "Weave  in,  My  Hardy  Life," 
"Quicksand  Years,"  "Out  of  the  Rolling  Ocean  the  Crowd,"  "O 
Magnet-South,"  "Miracles,"  "Joy,  Shipmate  Joy!"  "As  Toil- 
some I  Wandered  Virginia's  Woods,"  "Warble  for  Lilac-Time" 
by  Walt  Whitman. . 

LiPPiNCOTT's/tfr  permission  to  use  "  The  Virginians  of  the  Valley" 
by  Francis  Orrery  Ticknor. 

Lothrop,  Lee  &  Shepard  Company  for  permission  to  use  "A 
Dream  of  the  South  Wind,"  "In  the  Wheat-Field"  "The  Mocking 
Bird,"  by  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  permission  to  use  "The  Wayside"  "A 
Day  on  the  Hills,"  by  James  Herbert  Morse. 

The  Century  Company  for  permission  to  use  "The  Wistful 
Days,"  by  Robert  Underwood  Johnson. 

The  Macmillan  Company  for  permission  to  use  "Wild  Eden" 
by  George  Edward  Woodberry;  "Early  May  in  New  England"  by 
Percy  MacKayl. 

Sherman,  French  &  Company  for  permission  to  use  "Nature's 
Hired  Man"  "A  Philosopher,"  by  John  Kendrick  Bangs. 

Harper  &  Brothers  for  permission  to  use  "On  Entering  a  New 
House,"  by  Herbert  Mutter  Hopkins;  "Bestowal,"  "The  Passion- 
Flower,"  by  Margaret  Fuller. 

vi 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

White-Smith  Music  Publishing  Company  for  permission  to  use 
"  Kentucky  Babe"  by  Richard  Henry  Buck.  Words  of  this  poem  set 
to  music  by  Adam  Geibel,  the  well-known  and  eminent  blind  composer. 

The  Neale  Publishing  Company  for  permission  to  use 
"Another  Way"  by  Ambrose  Bierce. 

The  Robert  Clarke  Company  for  permission  to  use  "The 
Cardinal  Bird"  by  William  Davis  Gallagher. 

Miss  Anne  Whitney  for  permission  to  use  her  poems:  "Joy" 
"AWs  to  Gain,"  "Hymn  to  the  Sea." 

Joel  Benton/^  permission  to  use  his  poem,  "December." 

Harriet  McEwen  Kimball  for  permission  to  use  her  poem,  "The 
Crickets." 

Charles  Henry  Webb  for  permission  to  use  his  poem,  "With  a 
Nantucket  Shell." 

Rose  Hawthorne  Lathrop  for  permission  to  use  her  poem,  "A 
Song  Before  Grief." 

Ella    Wheeler    Wilcox    for  permission  to  use  her  poems: 

"Solitude,"  "  You  and  To-day." 

Hamlin  Garland  for  permission  to  use  his  poems:  "The  Toil  of 
the  Trail,"  "  The  Meadow  Lark." 

Thomas  Fleming  Day  for  permission  to  use  his  poem,  "The 
Coasters." 

Robert  Cameron  Rogers  for  permission  to  use  his  poems:  "A 
Ballad  of  Dead  Camp-Fires,"  "  The  Rosary." 

Raymond  Weeks  for  permission  to  use  his  poem,  "  Take  Thou 
This  Rose." 

Florence  Wilkinson  for  permission  to  use  her  poems:  "As  a 
Little  Child,"  uThe  Supreme  Forgiveness." 

Martha  Gilbert  Dickinson-Bianchi  for  permission  to  use  her 
poems:     "The  Watcher,"  "The  Night-Watch,"  "In  Dreams." 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch  for  permission  to  use  her  poems: 
"My  Mother's  Clothes,"  "Song  of  the  Wandering  Dust" 

Lucy  M.  S.  Mathewson  for  permission  to  use  her  brother's  poem, 
"Lucretius,"  by  Trumbul  Stickney. 

vii 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Clinton  Scollard  for  permission  to  use  his  poems:  "Song  of  the 
Ships,"    "The  Thrall" 

Sarah  Pratt  McLean  Green  for  permission  to  use  her  poem, 
"De  SheepfoVr 


vin 


PREFACE 

In  these  days  of  copyright  protection,  a  collection 
of  modern  poetry  has  to  be  a  compromise  between 
what  should  be  and  what  may  be.  The  present 
volume,  accordingly,  represents  our  taste  but  par- 
tially. If  any  one  objects  that  some  of  our  best 
poets  are  inadequately  represented,  while  certain 
ones  have  more  than  their  due  of  space,  let  him 
remember  that  very  often  choice  has  been  curtailed 
and  restricted  by  authors  or  publishers.  Our  only 
plea  is  that  we  have  tried  to  get  together  the  best 
that  was  procurable  and  to  make  as  representative 
a  book  as  was  possible  under  the  conditions  that 
prevailed. 


I IX 


INTRODUCTION 

In  our  country  to-day  the  lyric  is  the  universal 
fashion.  There  is  scarcely  a  novelist  of  repute, 
critic,  college  professor,  dramatist,  or  journalist  who 
has  not  turned  out,  even  published,  more  or  less 
creditable  verse.  Engineers  and  brokers,  statesmen 
and  clergymen,  indulge  in  rondeaus  and  triolets,  and 
college  classes  are  put  through  the  intricacies  of  the 
sonnet.  Professional  poets  are  few,  and  usually  pos- 
sessed of  an  income  that  comes  in  of  itself.  Among 
the  magazines,  however,  there  is  a  certain  demand 
for  "  fillers, "  which  are  rivals  to  tail-pieces  in  cover- 
ing the  whiteness  of  a  blank  page.  It  follows  that 
many  a  verse  owes  its  existence  in  print  to  its  size 
rather  than  its  quality,  and  its  mediocrity  inspires 
others  to  vie  in  meeting  the  demand.  More  than 
this,  the  practice  of  lyric  making  is  one  aspect  of  the 
universal  desire  for  self-expression  fostered  by  our 
present  system  of  education. 

For,  note  you,  this  desire  to  turn  personal  emotions 
into  verse  is  in  our  country  a  growth  of  the  last  fifty 
years.  Before  the  nineteenth  century  we  had  prac- 
tically no  lyrics  except  a  few  political  and  war  songs 
of  the  Revolution,  these  of  scant  value.  It  may  be 
that  the  pioneer  sang  at  the  ax  and  his  wife  hummed 


at  her  loom,  but  no  such  songs  made  their  way  into 
print.  The  lyric  impulse  of  the  early  settlers  was 
not  strong;  and  they  found  sufficient  gratification  for 
it  in  hymns.  Aside  from  these,  such  verse  as  was 
published  was  didactic,  philosophical,  satirical,  reflect- 
ing the  sophisticated  society  of  eighteenth  century 
England.  The  Puritans,  in  rebellion  against  the 
excesses  of  the  English  Renaissance,  held  that  it  was 
irreligious  to  express  emotions  in  the  arts.  The 
irreligious  folk  of  the  eighteenth  century  held  that 
it  was  unseemly  to  allow  the  expression  of  emotions 
to  go  beyond  the  limits  of  fashionable  convention. 
Both  attitudes  of  mind  were  deadly  to  the  lyric, 
which  in  its  essence  is  the  most  natural  and  spon- 
taneous form  of  literature. 

The  germ  of  the  lyric  lies  in  the  hunter's  shout  over 
his  prey,  the  mother's  croon  to  her  child,  the  warrior's 
battle-cry.  As  soon  as  these  emotions  are  voiced 
articulately  we  have  lyric  verse.  It  is  originally 
mere  release  of  the  soul  from  the  constraint  of  pas- 
sionate feeling.  Unlike  the  ballad  and  the  epic,  it 
may  be  born  in  solitude,  demanding  no  audience; 
unlike  the  drama,  it  requires  no  interplay  of  persons. 
It  is  only  a  stage  beyond  tears  and  laughter  as  a 
comment  on  human  experience,  and  its  primal  charac- 
teristics are  sincerity  and  unconsciousness. 

Among  primitive  peoples  such  lyrics  are  still  sung, 
and,  I  venture  to  believe,  they  are  still  being  made 
and  forgotten,  because  they  are  unrecorded,  all  the 
world  over.  The  potter  sings  at  his  wheel,  the  plow- 
man along  his  furrow,  the  fisherman  over  his  nets, 

fxiil 


the  housewife  at  her  spinning,  the  child  in  his  play; 
and  now  and  again  a  new  song,  more  striking  than 
usual,  or  more  fortunate  in  being  heard,  is,  by  some 
chance,  added  to  the  old  tradition. 

But  this  wild  lyric,  as  it  might  be  called,  is  soon 
carried  to  the  market  place,  where  it  gradually  ceases 
to  be  unconscious  and  personal,  and  takes  on  con- 
ventions of  form,  phrasing,  and  idea,  from  the  multi- 
tude. It  tends  to  grow  universal  in  character  and  to 
crystallize  in  a  variety  of  forms  the  experiences  com- 
mon to  many.  In  this  way  it  loses  its  high  original 
value  and  degenerates  into  mere  trickery  of  form. 
But  still  the  impulse  comes  freshly  now  and  again, 
and  a  new  aspect  of  life,  felt  deeply  and  passionately, 
sings  itself  in  verse,  and  we  have  a  Villon,  a  Burns, 
an  Emily  Dickinson.  Or  again,  some  impulse  to 
self-expression  stirs  in  a  nation  or  an  age,  and  we 
have,  the  Minnesingers,  -the  Elizabethan  lyrists,  or 
the  countless  minor  poets  of  our  own  time. 

The  present  impulse  to  self-expression  in  song  in 
America  began  with  Freneau,  Dana,  Wilde,  Sprague, 
and  a  few  others,  who  wrote  but  little  and  experi- 
mentally, and  yet  with  surprising  freshness  and 
sincerity  in  contrast  with  the  didactic  waste  that 
preceded  them. 

Closely  upon  them  followed  Longfellow  and  the 
other  poets  of  the  New  England  School,  whose  achieve- 
ment had  an  immediate  success  out  of  all  proportion 
to  its  merit,  in  Europe  as  well  as  in  this  country. 

This  immediate  success  meant,  of  course,  that  they 
adequately  reflected  the  thought  and  the  civilization 
[xiiil 


of  their  day,  and  that  in  proportion  as  they  were  not 
in  advance  of  their  times,  they  were  doomed  to  suffer 
from  a  reaction  of  taste. 

This  reaction  is  rapidly  coming  about.  Not  only 
have  the  relative  positions  of  the  poets  in  the  New 
England  School  been  shifted  about,  but  the  School 
itself,  while  its  productions  have  become  crystallized 
into  classics  for  the  young,  has  none  the  less  fallen 
into  a  comparatively  insignificant  place  in  our 
literary  development.  We  see  plainly  now  that  our 
national  poetry  is  still  in  the  dim  future,  if  indeed  it 
is  to  come  ever;  that  we  as  a  nation  are  no  more 
justly  represented  by  the  New  England  poets  than  by 
the  1776  patriots.  Both  did  their  work  and  had  their 
day;  but  the  work  of  the  patriots  is  more  enduring 
in  that  it  founded  a  nation  which  lives  on,  while  the 
work  of  the  poets  will  soon  become  only  historically 
interesting  in  that  it  represents  a  crude  culture,  a 
by-gone  fashion  of  thought,  a  fire  of  emotion  of  which 
the  exciting  causes  are  dead. 

They  were  not  representative  of  even  the  America 
of  their  day.  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and  Holmes 
reflected  Victorian  culture  as  transplanted  to  New 
England;  Whittier  and  Emerson  both  stood  for  the 
Puritan  type  of  mind.  With  the  old  life  of  the  South 
they  had  no  sympathy;  of  the  expanding  life  of  the 
West  they  had  no  knowledge.  They  lived  and  wrote 
in  the  centre  of  a  narrow  circle  of  states  which  by  their 
isolation  from  the  Old  World,  together  with  their 
monopoly  of  the  greater  part  of  the  Old  World  culture 
that  found  its  way  to  this  country,  had  come  to  feel 
fxivl 


themselves  as  self-sufficient  in  ideas  and  ideals. 
And  with  the  overwhelming  growth  of  the  outside 
forces  in  which  they  had  little  interest,  their  appeal 
has  become  still  more  restricted. 

In  the  shifting  of  positions  among  these  poets,  it 
now  appears  that  Emerson  is  bound  to  take  the  first 
place. 

Emerson  is  a  thinker,  a  philosopher,  a  teacher, 
whose  work  has  elements  of  permanence.  The  mere 
fact  that  he  revolutionized  the  mystic  philosophy 
in  the  New  England  of  his  day  does  not  mean  that  he 
was  a  great  poet;  but  it  means  that  he  was  not  without 
the  first  essential  of  great  poetry  —  a  personal  reac- 
tion to  certain  aspects  of  truth.  Then  again  he  was 
tremendously  in  earnest,  and  in  the  fire  of  his  earnest- 
ness he  struck  off  phrases,  fines,  whole  poems,  of  deep 
imaginative  appeal.  This  absolute  earnestness,  this 
deep-rooted  sincerity  in  responding  to  the  great  issues 
of  life,  make  almost  any  man  a  poet  in  mind;  and 
these  qualities  in  Emerson  were  combined  with 
enough  sense  of  form,  enough  mastery  of  rhythm  to 
give  them  that  transfusion  of  thought  and  emotion, 
that  sense-appeal,  music,  and  rhythm,  that  distinguish 
poetry  from  prose. 

Longfellow,  on  the  other  hand,  has  been  deposed 
from  his  throne  because  we  all  see  now  that,  although 
he  had  a  pretty  lyric  gift,  he  had  almost  nothing  to 
say.  It  is  easy  to  see  how  he  at  once  took  high  rank 
among  our  provincial  ancestors  and  countrymen. 
He  was  cultured  in  the  days  when  culture  was  rare. 
He  had  studied  and  travelled  much;    and,  wherever 

[XV  ] 


he  went,  he  assiduously  gathered  legend  and  lore  of 
many  kinds  and  came  home  laden  as  with  the  wealth 
of  the  Indies.  He  translated  and  imitated  from  the 
French,  German,  and  Italian;  he  introduced  a  great 
mass  of  Indian  material  into  our  literature.  And  in 
all  his  work  he  shows  the  same  easy,  melodious,  un- 
distinguished verse,  the  same  commonplace  senti- 
ments, the  same  second-rate  thoughts.  It  is  only 
occasionally,  in  poems  of  New  England  inspiration, 
that  he  strikes  a  note  of  freshness  and  of  realized 
experience,  as  notably  in  "My  Lost  Youth."  But 
although  he  did  useful  work  in  broadening  the  ideas 
and  interests  of  people  who  sadly  needed  this  very 
thing,  he  is  preeminently  now,  what  he  was  less  dis- 
tinctly felt  to  be  in  his  own  day,  the  Children's  Poet. 

Whittier,  like  Longfellow,  was  betrayed  by  his  gift 
of  fluency.  To  Longfellow's  simplicity  he  added  a 
deeper  earnestness,  a  veritable  zeal,  which  could  not, 
however,  make  up  for  the  Puritan  bareness  of  his 
soul.  He  was  spiritual-minded,  but  fundamentally 
sober  in  spirit;  noble,  but  without  wings  to  lift  his 
verses  into  the  ether  of  impersonal,  creative  emotion. 
When  he  is  deeply  stirred  as  by  injustice,  his  wrath 
is  of  the  man,  not  of  the  poet.  For  that  reason  he 
but  rarely  has  any  touch  of  poetic  magic,  and  many 
of  his  poems  are  merely  undistinguished  verse. 

Holmes,  as  we  can  see  now,  was  no  poet  at  all,  but 
merely  an  amiable  dilettante,  a  clever  practitioner 
of  verse,  often  amusing,  always  of  a  highly  ethical 
and  sentimental  turn. 

Lowell,  like  Longfellow,  was  the  man-of-letters 
[xvi] 


type,  the  closet  poet.  He  never  got  away  from  con- 
sciousness of  himself  as  a  versifier,  from  the  necessity, 
so  to  speak,  of  keeping  an  eye  on  the  technique  of  his 
work.  As  he  wrote  conscientiously,  we  view  the 
results  coldly.  He  never  kindles  us  with  the  fire  of 
his  own  creative  vision  so  that  we  forget  to  be  critical. 

Akin  to  the  New  England  poets  in  the  spirit  of  his 
work  is  Citizen  Bryant.  His  old-fashioned  eloquence 
has  a  certain  zest  about  it  when  it  is  not  drowned  in 
pomposity,  but  it  rarely  escapes  entirely  from  the 
meshes  of  his  journalistic  career.  Even  his  most 
delicate  thing  "To  a  Waterfowl"  is  not  without  its 
touch  of  banality.  It  is  impossible  to  dissociate 
Bryant  from  the  newspaper  world  of  which  he  was 
a  part. 

Before  the  War,  the  South  had  also  its  group  of 
poets,  of  which  Poe,  Timrod,  Simms,  and  Hayne 
are  the  most  noteworthy.  Timrod,  Simms,  and 
Hayne  all  have  a  certain  suavity,  a  melancholy  grace, 
a  kind  of  weeping-willow  tone  that  finds  expression 
in  musical  verse;  but  Timrod  and  Hayne  lacked  the 
strong  fibre  of  thought,  and  Simms  was  primarily  a 
writer  of  prose.  Poe,  however,  is  our  first  great 
American  poet.  With  many  of  the  faults  of  lesser 
poets,  he  has  the  peculiar  redeeming  quality  which 
enables  the  flaws  to  be  blotted  out  in  the  terrorizing 
splendor  of  the  effect.  His  imagination  shows  the 
same  warp  toward  the  gloomily  fantastic  that  appears 
in  the  paintings  of  Arnold  Bocklin;  but  Bocklin  could 
once  in  a  while  come  out  into  the  sunlight  of  pagan 
laughter;  Poe's  laughter  has  always  a  suggestion 
f  xviil 


of  the  diabolical,  not  the  merely  pagan,  even  in 
that  meaningless  " tintinnabulation "  of  sounds,  "The 
Bells."  He  had  no  philosophy  of  life,  no  conscious- 
ness of  a  message,  no  deep  love  of  humanity  or  of 
nature;  but  he  was  keenly  alive  to  the  possibilities 
of  his  own  technique,  and  with  a  cool  deliberation, 
I  believe,  fashioned  his  grotesque  imagery  to  make 
a  new  form  of  art,  and  to  produce  such  poetic  effects 
as  had  never  been  attained  before.  And  in  this  task 
that  he  set  himself  he  succeeded.  Within  his  limits 
he  is  great;  and  his  very  limitations  make  him 
unique. 

Since  the  War  we  have  had  an  increasing  host  of 
men  of  letters ;  but  among  them  all  the  only  ones  to 
whom  poetry  was  more  than  an  incident  of  self- 
expression,  or,  being  more,  was  in  itself  of  the  quality 
that  long  outlives  the  life  of  its  producer,  are  Lanier, 
Sill,  Aldrich,  Whitman,  Moody,  and  the  one  woman 
—  Emily  Dickinson. 

Lanier  is  our  most  conspicuous  instance  of  promise 
cut  short;  but  its  failures  are  worth  more  than  most 
men's  achievements.  When  he  died,  he  had  still  but 
incomplete  mastery  of  his  material,  but  the  reason 
for  this  is  that  up  to  the  day  of  his  death  he  was  still 
experimenting  with  his  new  theories  of  rhythm, 
originating  fresh  methods  of  welding  sense  to  sound. 
He  was  working  toward  a  highly  individual  and  poetic 
treatment  of  Nature  and  more  flexible  verse-music 
than  had  been  used  before;  but  he  had  not  time  to 
perfect  his  work  so  that  it  was  clear  of  the  mechanics 
of  his  theories.  In  his  longer  poems  there  are  magnifi- 
[xviii] 


cent  passages,  but  the  whole,  effect  is  uneven.  In 
the  marvellous  little  "  Ballad  of  Trees  and  Their 
Master"  he  shows  the  possibilities  that  were  almost 
within  his  grasp. 

Sill  is  distinctly  narrower,  less  original,  much  less 
musical;  but  his  work  has  a  strongly  individual 
quality  that  gives  it  permanence.  He  had  always 
something  to  say,  and  utterance  was  difficult.  He 
was  spared  the  curse  of  the  minor  poet  —  facility; 
and  so  his  work  has  a  penetrating  conviction  that 
makes  it  linger  in  the  memory. 

Aldrich  at  his  best  is  our  Horace.  ;  Much  of  his  work 
is  unimportant,  but  a  little  of  it  shows  a  fine  crafts- 
manship delicately  adapted  to  each  trifling  theme. 

No  greater  antithesis  to  Aldrich  than  Whitman 
could  be  found,  —  the  one  finished  in  form,  crystal- 
lized in  ideas,  and  the  other,  vague,  immense,  and 
formless.  In  his  very  formlessness,  however,  there 
seems  a  kind  of  purpose,  though  it  is  hard  to  say  how 
far  he  was  conscious  of  it.  Certainly  it  is  true  that 
he  used  the  only  vehicle  —  complete  elasticity  of 
verse  form  —  that  would  make  his  crude,  chaotic, 
imperfectly  formulated  thought  endurable.  Reduced 
to  foot  and  stanza,  his  poetry  would  be  like  a  bar- 
barian tricked  out  in  silk  hat  and  trousers;  but  in 
that  his  unpruned  form  and  his  undirected  thought 
grow  together,  they  succeed  in  conveying  both  the 
message  with  which  he  felt  himself  charged  and  the 
gigantic  personality  of  the  man  himself.  In  his 
great  moments  he  has  a  big  rhythm  that  suggests 
the  undeveloped  possibilities  in  verse  movements, 
[xix] 


Unfortunately  too  many  little  poets  have  wrongly 
conceived  that  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  play  with  the 
magician's  rod,  and  the  results  are  deplorable.  Any- 
thing worse  than  an  imitation  of  Whitman  is  scarcely 
to  be  imagined.  But  the  man  himself,  with  all  his 
glaring  absurdities,  his  bottomless  depth  of  crudity, 
in  the  ultimate  primitive  strength  of  his  natural 
resources  is  more  nearly  typical  of  our  national 
development  than  any  other  poet 

If  Whitman  grips  us  because  of  a  certain  national 
and  even  universal  appeal,  Emily  Dickinson  remains 
little  known  and  less  understood  because  of  her  re- 
moteness from  our  common  life,  her  intense  con- 
ceptions of  phases  of  experience  which  are  necessarily 
limited  to  the  few  rare  souls  who  by  their  very  in- 
dividuality are  forever  shut  out  from  the  common- 
places of  life.  Their  loss  —  and  it  is  a  real  loss  —  is 
the  gain  of  the  world,  which  can  know  only  by  reflec- 
tion, can  but  "see  in  a  glass  darkly,"  what  is  clearly 
revealed  to  the  finer  sensitiveness  of  some  peculiar 
types  of  genius.  Emily  Dickinson  had  little  craft 
in  her  verse;  but  there  were  moments  when  the 
heavens  were  opened  to  her  and  the  reflections  of 
these  imaginative  moods  are  more  likely  divine 
ecstasy  of  poetry  than  anything  else  written  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic. 

Latest  of  our  great  poets  thus  far  I  count  William 
Vaughn  Moody,  who  combines  to  an  extraordinary 
degree  something  of  Emily  Dickinson's  sensitiveness 
to  beauty  in  the  external  world  and  in  the  spiritual 
world,  with  much  of  Sill's  earnestness,  Lanier's  music, 


and  Whitman's  national  consciousness,  together  with 
a  robustness  and  daring  quite  his  own.  Reading 
his  poems  one  says,  "This  is  Greek,"  or  "This  is 
like  the  flame  of  Dante";  and  then  suddenly  comes  a 
note  straight  out  of  our  own  life  that  is  like  nothing- 
else .  Many  of  his  poems  are  extraordinarily  fused 
out  of  Nature  impressions,  a  keen  sense  of  human 
suffering  and  brotherhood,  and  a  strong  national  con- 
sciousness almost  if  not  quite  unique  among  our  poets. 
Had  he  not  died  young,  he  might  have  been  our 
poet  of  poets.  There  is  no  other  to-day  who,  to  my 
thinking,  shows  anything  like  his  promise. 

When  I  began  to  make  this  collection,  I  hoped  to 
find  distinctively  American  notes  in  our  lyric  poetry; 
but  aside  from  the  few  writers  named  above,  our 
achievement  is  more  in  mass  than  in  quality.  It 
is  an  extraordinary  fact  that  our  love  poems  are  all 
conventional;  our  patriotic  poems  are  bombast; 
our  religious  poems,  doggerel.  Our  Puritan  ancestry 
and  traditions  forbid  free  expression  to  the  natural 
impulses  of  love;  our  national  consciousness  is  swal- 
lowed up  in  commercialism,  individual  greed  of  gain; 
our  religion  is  divorced  from  poetry.  There  is  only 
one  topic  that  we  can  write  about  with  any  degree  of 
sincerity  and  that  is  Nature.  So  it  happens  that  we 
have  many  fresh  little  lyrics  dealing  with  various 
aspects  of  the  natural  world,  birds  and  animals, 
flowers,  rivers,  landscape.  These  are  by  no  means 
great,  but  they  are  sincere. 

The  truth  that  we  are  bound  to  come  to  is  that  we 
are  an  eminently  scientific  and  practical  nation ;  and, 
[xxi] 


in  our  usual  moods,  we  pride  ourselves  upon  these 
very  qualities.  We  must  admit,  however,  that  our 
lyric  poetry  is  like  a  stream  that  has  been  diverted 
from  the  springs  of  our  daily  life  and  conveyed  in 
artificial  channels  remote  enough  from  the  things 
that  touch  us  deeply.  Shall  we  ever  return  to  the 
lyric  way  of  expressing  emotions,  which  is  as  old  as 
the  race?  That  is  scarcely  the  question.  The  old 
way  was  at  first  a  personal  cry;  but  it  gradually  took 
on  something  of  communal  and  finally  of  universal 
human  experience.  In  our  lyrics  to-day  we  have 
again  the  personal  pipings  of  a  multitude  of  small 
voices.  Very  few  show  any  national,  much  less  uni- 
versal, consciousness.  It  is  a  part  of  our  selfish  in- 
dividualism that  this  should  be  so.  When  we  have 
had  a  great  national  awakening  to  the  ideals  of  the 
spirit,  we  may  look  for  lyric  poetry  that  will  inspire 
and  kindle  to  fresh  endeavor.  But  the  new  order 
comes  slowly,  and  when  these  things  shall  be  —  who 
knows? 

E.  R. 


[xxii 


AMERICAN    LYRICS 


THE  WILD   HONEYSUCKLE 

BY   PHILIP   FRENEAU 

Fair  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 

Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat, 
Untouched  thy  honied  blossoms  blow, 
Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet: 
No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here, 
No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 

By  Nature's  self  in  white  arrayed, 

She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye, 
And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade, 
And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by; 
Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes, 
Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 

Smit  with  those  charms,  that  must  decay, 

I  grieve  to  see  your  future  doom; 
They  died  —  nor  were  those  flowers  more  gay 
The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom; 
Unpitying  frosts  and  Autumn's  power 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews 

At  first  thy  little  being  came; 
If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 
For  when  you  die  you  are  the  same; 
The  space  between  is  but  an  hour, 
The  frail  duration  of  a  flower. 

[i] 


ON  A  HONEY  BEE 

Drinking  from  a  Glass  of  Wine  and  Drowned  Therein 

BY  PHILIP   FRENEAU 

Thou  born  to  sip  the  lake  or  spring, 

Or  quaff  the  waters  of  the  stream, 
Why  hither  come,  on  vagrant  wing? 
Does  Bacchus  tempting  seem,  — 
Did  he  for  you  this  glass  prepare? 
Will  I  admit  you  to  a  share? 

Did  storms  harass  or  foes  perplex, 

Did  wasps  or  king-birds  bring  dismay,  — 
Did  wars  distress,  or  labors  vex, 
Or  did  you  miss  your  way? 
A  better  seat  you  could  not   take 
Than  on  the  margin  of  this  lake. 

Welcome !  —  I  hail  you  to  my  glass : 

All  welcome  here  you  find; 
Here  let  the  cloud  of  trouble  pass, 
Here  be  all  care  resigned. 

This  fluid  never  fails  to  please, 
And  drown  the  griefs  of  men  or  bees. 

What   forced   you   here   we   cannot   know, 

And  you  will  scarcely  tell, 
But  cheery  we  would  have  you  go 


And  bid  a  glad  farewell: 

On  lighter  wings  we  bid  you  fly, — 
Your  dart  will  now  all  foes  defy. 

Yet  take  not,  oh!  too  deep  a  drink, 

And   in   this   ocean   die; 
Here  bigger  bees  than  you  might  sink, 
Even  bees  full  six  feet  high. 
Like  Pharaoh,  then,  you  would  be  said 
To  perish  in  a  sea  of  red. 

Do  as  you  please,  your  will  is  mine; 

Enjoy  it  without  fear, 
And  your  grave  will  be  this  glass  of  wine, 
Your  epitaph  —  a  tear; 

Go,    take    your    seat   in    Charon's    boat; 
We'll  tell  the  hive,  you  died  afloat. 


M 


SONG 

BY  JOHN   SHAW 

Who  has  robbed  the  ocean  cave, 

To  tinge  thy  lips  with  coral  hue? 
Who,  from  India's  distant  wave 

For  thee  those  pearly  treasures  drew? 
Who,  from  yonder  orient  sky, 
Stole  the  morning  of  thine  eye? 

Thousand  charms,  thy  form  to  deck, 

From  sea,  and  earth,  and  air  are  torn; 
Roses  bloom  upon  thy  cheek, 

On  thy  breath  their  fragrance  borne. 
Guard  thy  bosom  from  the  day, 
Lest  thy  snows  should  melt  away* 

But  one  charm  remains  behind, 

Which  mute  earth  can  ne'er  impart; 
Nor  in  ocean  wilt  thou  find, 
Nor  in  the  circling  air,  a  heart. 
Fairest!  wouldst  thou  perfect  be, 
Take,  oh  take  that  heart  from  me. 


[4] 


THE  LITTLE  BEACH-BIRD 

BY   RICHARD   HENRY   DANA 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice, 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
Why  o'er  the  waves  dost  fly? 
O,  rather,  bird,  with  me 

Through  the  fair  land  rejoice ! 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea; 
Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us :  Thy  wail,  — 
What  doth  it  bring  to  me? 

Thou  call'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Restless  and  sad;  as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge  — 
The  Mystery  —  the  Word. 

Of  thousands,  thou,  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 
Old  Ocean!    A  requiem  o'er  the  dead 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 

Is] 


A  tale  of  mourning  tells,  — 
Tells  of  man's  woe  and  fall, 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 
Thy  spirit  nevermore; 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore, 
And  on  the  meadows  light 
Where  birds  for  gladness  sing! 


U] 


TO  THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

BY  RICHARD  HENRY  WILDE 

Winged  mimic  of  the  woods!   thou  motley  fool! 

Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  describe? 

Thine  ever-ready  notes  of  ridicule 

Pursue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  and  gibe. 

Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick  of  thy  tribe, 

Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's  school, 

To  thee  the  palm  of  scoffing  we  ascribe, 

Arch-mocker  and  mad  Abbot  of  Misrule! 

For  such  thou  art  by  day,  —  but  all  night  long 

Thou  pourest  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain, 

As  if  thou  didst  in  this  thy  moonlight  song 

Like  to  the  melancholy  Jaques  complain, 

Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  vice,  and  wrong, 

And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat  again. 


M 


TO  MY  CIGAR 

BY  CHARLES   SPRAGUE 

Yes,  social  friend,  I  love  thee  well, 

In  learned  doctors'   spite; 
Thy  clouds  all  other  clouds  dispel, 

And  lap  me  in  delight. 

By  thee,  they  cry,  with  phizzes  long, 

My  years  are  sooner  passed; 
Well,  take  my  answer,  right  or  wrong, 

They  're  sweeter  while  they  last. 

And  oft,  mild  friend,  to  me  thou  art 

A  monitor,  though  still; 
Thou  speak'st  a  lesson  to  my  heart 

Beyond  the  preacher's  skill. 

Thou  'rt  like  the  man  of  worth,  who  gives 

To  goodness  every  day, 
The  odor  of  whose  virtue  lives 

When  he  has  passed  away. 

When,  in  the  lonely  evening  hour, 

Attended  but  by  thee, 
O'er  history's  varied  page  I  pore, 

Man's  fate  in  thine  I  see. 
[81 


Oft  as  thy  snowy  column  grows, 

Then  breaks  and  falls  away, 
I  trace  how  mighty  realms  thus  rose, 

Thus  tumbled  to  decay. 

Awhile  like  thee  the  hero  burns, 
And  smokes  and  fumes  around, 

And  then,  like  thee,  to  ashes  turns, 
And  mingles  with  the  ground. 

Life's  but  a  leaf  adroitly  rolled, 
And  time's  the  wasting  breath, 

That  late  or  early,  we  behold, 
Gives  all  to  dusty  death. 

From  beggar's  frieze  to  monarch's  robe, 
One  common  doom  is  passed; 

Sweet  Nature's  works,  the  swelling  globe. 
Must  all  burn  out  at  last. 

And  what  is  he  who  smokes  thee  now?  — 

A  little  moving  heap, 
That  soon  like  thee  to  fate  must  bow, 

With  thee  in  dust  must  sleep. 

But  though  thy  ashes  downward  go, 

Thy  essence  rolls  on  high; 
Thus,  when  my  body  must  He  low, 

My  soul  shall  cleave  the  sky. 


9] 


THANATOPSIS 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart;  — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air  — 
Comes  a  still  voice :  —  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

[10] 


To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak    . 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world  —  with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth  —  the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun,  —  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods;  rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks    ■ 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man !    The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.    All  that  tread 
The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.  —  Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  pierce  the  Bar  can  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings  —  yet  the  dead  are  there! 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 

[«] 


The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep,  —  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest,  and  what  i£  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men  — 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 
And  the  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man  — 
Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


i«] 


TO  A  WATERFOWL 

BY   WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

[13] 


And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  shall  bend 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  has  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


[14] 


TO  THE  FRINGED   GENTIAN 

BY  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night, 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 
Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 
Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frost  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue  —  blue  —  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 

[15] 


ROBERT  OF  LINCOLN 

BY   WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain-side  or  mead, 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Snug  and  safe  is  that  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gaily  drest, 

Wearing  a  bright  black  wedding-coat; 
White  are  his  shoulders  and  white  his  crest. 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Look,  what  a  nice  new  coat  is  mine, 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet  with  plain  brown  wings, 
Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
[16] 


Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Brood,  kind  creature;   you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note. 
Braggart  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man; 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can! 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight! 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 
Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might: 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nice  good  wife,  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 
Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food; 
Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 

[17] 


This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care; 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  he. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes;    the  children  are  grown; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows; 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  humdrum  crone; 
Off  he  flies  and  we  sing  as  he  goes : 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink; 
When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 


18] 


THE    PLANTING   OF   THE   APPLE-TREE 

BY   WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 

Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 
Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As,  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet, 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle-sheet; 

So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays; 
Boughs  where  the  thrush,  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt  and  sing  and  hide  her  nest; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard  row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 

[19] 


Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 
We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 
And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  when,  above  this  apple-tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage-hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 

The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day, 

[20] 


And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 
In  the  shade  of  the  apple- tree. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verduous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 
The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  little  apple-tree? 

"Who  planted  this  old  apple-tree?" 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say; 
And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them: 

"A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times; 
'Tis  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes, 

On  planting  the  apple-tree." 

r  21 1 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY 

BY  JAMES   GATES   PERCIVAL 

Thou,  who  in  the  early  spring 
Hoverest  on  filmy  wing, 
Visiting  the  bright-eyed  flowers, 
Fluttering  in  loaded  bowers, 
Settling  on  the  reddening  rose, 
Reddening  ere  it  fully  blows, 

When  its  crisp  and  folded  leaves 
Just  unroll  their  dewy  tips, 
Soft  as  infant  beauty's  lips, 

Or  anything  that  love  believes, 
Little  wanderer  after  pleasure, 
Where  is  that  enchanted  treasure, 
All  that  live  are  seeking  for? 
Is  it  in  the  blossom,  or 

Where  we  seek  it,  in  the  roses 
Of  a  maiden's  cheek,  or  rather 
In  the  many  lights  that  gather 

When  her  smiling  lip  uncloses? 
Wouldst  thou  rather  kiss  a  flower, 
When  't  is  drooping  with  a  shower, 
Or  with  trembling,  quivering  wing 
Rest  thee  on  a  dearer  thing, 
On  a  lip  that  has  no  stain, 
On  a  brow  that  feels  no  pain, 
In  the  beamings  of  an  eye, 

[22] 


Where  a  world  of  visions  lie, 
Such  as  to  the  blest  are  given, 
All  of  heaven,  —  all  of  heaven? 
If  thou  lovest  the  blossom,  I 
Love  the  cheek,  the  lip,  and  eye. 


[23] 


EVENING 

BY  GEORGE  WASHINGTON  DOANE 

Softly  now  the  light  of  day 
Fades  upon  my  sight  away; 
Free  from  care,  from  labor  free, 
Lord,  I  would  commune  with  Thee: 

Thou,  whose  all-pervading  eye, 
Naught  escapes,  without,  within, 

Pardon  each  infirmity, 
Open  fault  and  secret  sin. 

Soon,  for  me,  the  light  of  day 
Shall  forever  pass  away; 
Then,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
Take  me,  Lord,  to  dwell  with  Thee: 

Thou,  who,  sinless,  yet  hast  known 

All  of  man's  infirmity; 
Then  from  Thine  eternal  throne, 

Jesus,  look  with  pitying  eye. 


[24] 


A  SERENADE 

BY  EDWARD   COATE  PINKNEY 

Look  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love, 

And  shame  them  with  thine  eyes, 
On  which,  than  on  the  lights  above, 

There  hang  more  destinies. 
Night's  beauty  is  the  harmony 

Of  blending  shades  and  light; 
Then,  lady,  up,  —  look  out,  and  be 

A  sister  to  the  night. 

Sleep  not !  thine  image  wakes ,  for  aye 

Within  my  watching  breast: 
Sleep  not!   from  her  soft  sleep  should  fly 

Who  robs  all  hearts  of  rest. 
Nay,  lady,  from  thy  slumbers  break, 

And  make  this  darkness  gay 
With  looks,  whose  brightness  well  might  make 

Of  darker  nights  a  d,ay. 


25 


SONG 

BY  EDWARD   COATE  PINKNEY 

We  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine 

To  some  beloved  health  we  drain, 
Lest  future  pledges,  less  divine, 

Should  e'er  the  hallowed  toy  profane; 
And  thus  I  broke  a  heart  that  poured 

Its  tide  of  feelings  out  for  thee, 
In  draughts,  by  after-times  deplored, 

Yet  dear  to  memory. 

But  still  the  old,  impassioned  ways 

And  habits  of  my  mind  remain, 
And    still    unhappy   light    displays 

Thine    image    chambered   in   my   brain; 
And  still  it  looks  as  when  the  hours 

Went  by  like  flights  of  singing  birds, 
Or  that  soft   chain   of   spoken  flowers 

And   airy   gems,  —  thy   words. 


[26] 


CONCORD   HYMN 

Sung  at  the  completion  of  the  Battle  Monument, 
April  19,  1836 

BY   RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 

'  To  die,  or  leave  their  children  free, 
Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 
The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 


[27] 


WALDEINSAMKEIT 

BY   RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

I  do  not  count  the  hours  I  spend 
In  wandering  by  the  sea; 
The  forest  is  my  loyal  friend, 
Like  God  it  useth  me. 

In  plains  that  room  for  shadows  make 
Of  skirting  hills  to  He, 
Bound  in  by  streams  which  give  and  take 
Their  colors  from  the  sky; 

Or  on  the  mountain-crest  sublime, 
Or  down  the  oaken  glade, 
Oh,  what  have  I  to  do  with  time? 
For  this  the  day  was  made. 

Cities  of  mortals  woe-begone 
Fantastic  care  derides, 
But  in  the  serious  landscape  lone 
Stern  benefit  abides. 

Sheen  will  tarnish,  honey  cloy, 
And  merry  is  only  a  mask  of  sad, 
But,  sober  on  a  fund  of  joy, 
The  woods  at  heart  are  glad. 

r  281 


There  the  great  Planter  plants 
Of  fruitful  worlds  the  grain, 
And  with  a  million  spells  enchants 
The  souls  that  walk  in  pain. 

Still  on  the  seeds  of  all  he  made 

The  rose  of  beauty  burns; 

Through  times  that  wear  and  forms  that  fade, 

Immortal  youth  returns. 

The  black  ducks  mounting  from  the  lake, 
The  pigeon  in  the  pines, 
The  bittern's  boom,  a  desert  make 
Which  no  false  art  refines. 

Down  in  yon  watery  nook, 

Where  bearded  mists  divide, 

The  gray  old  gods  whom  Chaos  knew, 

The  sires  of  Nature,  hide. 

Aloft  in  secret  veins  of  air, 
Blows  the  sweet  breath  of  song, 
Oh,  few  to  scale  those  uplands  dare, 
Though  they  to  all  belong ! 

See  thou  bring  not  to  field  or  stone 
The  fancies  found  in  books; 
Leave  authors'  eyes,  and  fetch  your  own, 
To  brave  the  landscape's  looks. 

[29] 


Oblivion  here  thy  wisdom  is, 
Thy  thrift,  the  sleep  of  cares; 
For  a  proud  idleness  like  this 
Crowns  all  thy  mean  affairs. 


[30] 


BRAHMA 

BY  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 

They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good, 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 


[31] 


DAYS 

BY 'RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 

Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 

And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 

Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 

Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 

Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 

Turned  and  departed  silent.     I,  too  late, 

Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn. 


[32] 


EACH  AND   ALL 


BY   RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 


Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 

Of  thee  from  the  hilltop  looking  down; 

The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 

Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm; 

The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 

Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 

Whilst  his  tiles  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 

Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 

All  are  needed  by  each  one; 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 

Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough; 

I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even; 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now, 

For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky; 

He  sang  to  my  ear,  —  they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home; 

[33] 


But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore 

With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  uproar. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 

As  mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed, 

Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 

Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 

At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage; 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 

A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 

Then  I  said,  "I  covet  truth; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat; 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth. " 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird; 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole; 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 


34 


FORBEARANCE 

BY  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun? 

Loved  the  wood-rose,  and  left  it  on  its  stalk? 

At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and  pulse? 

Unarmed,  faced  danger  with  a  heart  of  trust? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior, 

In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from  speech  refrained, 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay? 

O,  be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  to  be  thine! 


[35] 


FATE 

BY  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

Deep  in  the  man  sits  fast  his  fate 

To  mold  his  fortunes  mean  or  great. 

Unknown  to  Cromwell  as  to  me 

Was  Cromwell's  measure  or  degree; 

Unknown  to  him  as  to  his  horse, 

If  he  than  his  groom  be  better  or  worse. 

He  works,  plots,  fights,  in  rude  affairs, 

With  squires,  lords,  kings,  his  craft  compares, 

Till  late  he  learned,  through  doubt  and  fear, 

Broad  England  harbored  not  his  peer: 

Obeying  Time,  the  last  to  own 

Thy  Genius  from  its  cloudy  throne. 

For  the  prevision  is  allied 

Unto  the  thing  so  signified; 

Or  say,  the  foresight  that  awaits 

Is  the  same  Genius  that  creates. 


36 


GIVE  ALL  TO  LOVE 

BY   RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON 

Give  all  to  love; 

Obey  thy  heart; 

Friends,  kindred,  days, 

Estate,  good-fame, 

Plans,  credit,  and  the  Muse,  - 

Nothing  refuse. 

'Tis  a  brave  master; 

Let  it  have  scope : 

Follow  it  utterly, 

Hope  beyond  hope : 

High  and  more  high 

It  dives  into  noon, 

With  wing  unspent, 

Untold  intent; 

But  it  is  a  god, 

Knows  its  own  path 

And  the  outlets  of  the  sky. 

It  was  never  for  the  mean; 
It  requireth  courage  stout. 
Souls  above  doubt, 
Valor  unbending, 
It  will  reward,  — 
They  shall  return 

[37] 


More  than  they  were, 
And  ever  ascending. 

Leave  all  for  love; 

Yet,  hear  me,  yet, 

One  word  more  thy  heart  behoved, 

One  pulse  more  of  firm  endeavor,  — 

Keep  thee  to-day, 

To-morrow,  forever, 

Free  as  an  Arab 

Of  thy  beloved. 

Cling  with  life  to  the  maid; 

But  when  the  surprise, 

First  vague  shadow  of  surmise 

Flits  across  her  bosom  young, 

Of  a  joy  apart  from  thee, 

Free  be  she,  fancy-free; 

Nor  thou  detain  her  vesture's  hem, 

Nor  the  palest  rose  she  flung 

From  her  summer  diadem. 

Though  thou  loved  her  as  thyself, 

As  a  self  of  purer  clay, 

Though  her  parting  dims  the  day, 

Stealing  grace  from  all  alive; 

Heartily  know, 

When  half -gods  go, 

The  gods  arrive. 


[38] 


FRIENDSHIP 

BY  RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 

A  ruddy  drop  of  manly  blood 

The  surging  sea  outweighs, 

The  world  uncertain  comes  and  goes; 

The  lover  rooted  stays. 

I  fancied  he  was  fled,  — 

And,  after  many  a  year, 

Glowed  unexhausted  kindliness, 

Like  daily  sunrise  there. 

My  careful  heart  was  free  again, 

O  friend,  my  bosom  said, 

Through  thee  alone  the  sky  is  arched, 

Through  thee  the  rose  is  red; 

All  things  through  thee  take  nobler  form. 

And  look  beyond  the  earth, 

The  mill-round  of  our  fate  appears 

A  sun-path  in  thy  worth. 

Me  too  thy  nobleness  has  taught 

To  master  my  despair; 

The  fountains  of  my  hidden  life 

Are  through  thy  friendship  fair. 


[39 


THE   HUMBLE-BEE 

BY  RALPH  WALDO   EMERSON 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee, 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid-zone! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air; 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon; 
Epicurean  of  June; 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum,  — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 
And  with  softness  touching  all, 

[40] 


Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  the  color  of  romance, 
And  infusing  subtle  heats, 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 
Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes, 
Rover  of  the  underwoods, 
The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen; 
But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 
Maple-sap  and  daffodels, 
Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 
Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's  tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among; 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Ui] 


Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep; 
Want  and  woe  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 


[42] 


SONNETS 
Front  the  series  relating  to  Edgar  Allan  Poe 

BY   SARAH  HELEN  WHITMAN 


On  our  lone  pathway  bloomed  no  earthly  hopes: 
Sorrow  and  death  were  near  us,  as  we  stood 
Where  the  dim  forest,  from  the  upland  slopes, 
Swept  darkly  to  the  sea.     The  enchanted  wood 
Thrilled,  as  by  some  foreboding  terror  stirred; 
And  as  the  waves  broke  on  the  lonely  shore, 
In  their  low  monotone,  methought  I  heard 
A  solemn  voice  that  sighed,  "Ye  meet  no  more." 
There,  while  the  level  sunbeams  seemed  to  burn 
Through  the  long  aisles  of  red,  autumnal  gloom, — 
Where  stately,  storied  cenotaphs  inurn 
Sweet  human  hopes,  too  fair  on  Earth  to  bloom, — 
Was  the  bud  reaped,  whose  petals  pure  and  cold 
Sleep  on  my  heart  till  Heaven  the  flower  unfold. 

II 

If  thy  sad  heart,  pining  for  human  love, 

In  its  earth  solitude  grew  dark  with  fear, 

Lest  the  high  Sun  of  Heaven  itself  should  prove 

Powerless  to  save  from  that  phantasmal  sphere 

Wherein  thy  spirit  wandered, —  if  the  flowers 

That  pressed  around  thy  feet,  seemed  but  to  bloom 

[43] 


In  lone  Gethsemanes,  through  starless  hours, 
When  all  who  loved  had  left  thee  to  thy  doom, — 
Oh,  yet  believe  that,  in  that  hollow  vale 
Where  thy  soul  lingers,  waiting  to  attain 
So  much  of  Heaven's  sweet  grace  as  shall  avail 
To  lift  its  burden  of  remorseful  pain, 
My  soul  shall  meet  thee,  and  its  Heaven  forego 
Till  God's  great  love,  on  both,  one  hope,  one  Heaven 
bestow. 


[44] 


THE   STAR  OF   CALVARY 

BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

It  is  the  same  infrequent  star,  — 

The  all-mysterious  light, 
That  like  a  watcher,  gazing  on 

The  changes  of  the  night, 
Toward  the  hill  of  Bethlehem  took 

Its  solitary  flight. 

It  is  the  same  infrequent  star; 

Its  sameness  startleth  me, 
Although  the  disk  is  red  as  blood, 

And  downward  silently 
It  looketh  on  another  hill,  — 

The  hill  of  Calvary! 

Nor  moon,  nor  night;  for  to  the  west 

The  heavy  sun  doth  glow; 
And,  like  a  ship,  the  lazy  mist 

Is  sailing  on  below,  — 
Between  the  broad  sun  and  the  earth 

It  tacketh  to  and  fro. 

There  is  no  living  wind  astir; 

The  bat's  unholy  wing 
Threads  through  the  noiseless  olive  trees, 

Like  some  unquiet  thing 

[45] 


Which  playeth  in  the  darkness,  when 
The  leaves  are  whispering. 

Mount  Calvary!     Mount  Calvary! 

All  sorrowfully  still, 
That  mournful  tread,  it  rends  the  heart 

With  an  unwelcome  thrill,  — 
The  mournful  tread  of  them  that  crowd 

Thy  melancholy  hill! 

There  is  a  cross,  — not  one  alone: 

'T  is  even  three  I  count, 
Like  columns  on  the  mossy  marge 

Of  some  old  Grecian  fount,  — 
So  pale  they  stand,  so  drearily, 

On  that  mysterious  Mount. 

Behold,  O  Israel!  behold, 

It  is  no  human  One 
That  ye  have  dared  to  crucify. 

What  evil  hath  he  done? 
It  is  your  King,  0  Israel! 

The  God-begotten  Son! 

A  wreath  of  thorns,  a  wreath  of  thorns! 

Why  have  ye  crowned  him  so? 
That  brow  is  bathed  in  agony,  — 

'T  is  veiled  in  every  woe: 
Ye  saw  not  the  immortal  trace 

Of  Deity  below. 

[46] 


It  is  the  foremost  of  the  Three! 

Resignedly  they  fall, 
Those  deathlike  drooping  features, 

Unbending,  blighted  all: 
The  Man  of  Sorrows,  —  how  he  bears 

The  agonizing  thrall! 

'T  is  fixed  on  thee,  O  Israel! 

His  gaze!  —  how  strange  to  brook; 
But  that  there's  mercy  blended  deep 

In  each  reproachful  look, 
'T  would  search  thee,  till  the  very  heart 

Its  withered  home  forsook. 

To  God!   to  God!   how  eloquent 

The  cry,  as  if  it  grew, 
By  those  cold  lips  unuttered,  yet 

All  heartfelt  rising  through,  — 
" Father  in  heaven!   forgive  them,  for 

They  know  not  what  they  do!" 


[47] 


THE   GRAPE-VINE  SWING 

BY  WILLIAM  GILMORE   SIMMS 

Lithe  and  long  as  the  serpent  train, 

Springing  and  clinging  from  tree  to  tree, 
Now  darting  upward,  now  down  again, 

With  a  twist  and  a  twirl  that  are  strange  to  see; 
Never  took  serpent  a  deadlier  hold, 

Never  the  cougar  a  wilder  spring, 
Strangling  the  oak  with  the  boa's  fold, 

Spanning  the  beech  with  the  condor's  wing. 

Yet  no  foe  that  we  fear  to  seek,  — 

The  boy  leaps  wild  to  thy  rude  embrace; 
Thy  bulging  arms  bear  as  soft  a  cheek 

As  ever  on  lover's  breast  found  place; 
On  thy  waving  train  is  a  playful  hold 

Thou  shalt  never  to  lighter  grasp  persuade; 
While  a  maiden  sits  in  thy  drooping  fold, 

And  swings  and  sings  in  the  noonday  shade! 

0  giant  strange  of  our  Southern  woods! 

I  dream  of  thee  still  in  the  well-known  spot, 
Though  our  vessel  strains  o'er  the  ocean  floods, 
And  the  Northern  forest  beholds  thee  not; 

1  think  of  thee  still  with  a  sweet  regret, 

As  the  cordage  yields  to  my  playful  grasp,  — 
Dost  thou  spring  and  cling  in  our  woodlands  yet? 
Does  the  maiden  still  swing  in  thy  giant  clasp? 

[48] 


THE  SWAMP  FOX 

BY  WILLIAM  GILMORE   SIMMS 

We  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox  guides, 

His  friends  and  merry  men  are  we; 
And  when  the  troop  of  Tarleton  rides, 

We  burrow  in  the  cypress- tree. 
The  turfy  hammock  is  our  bed, 

Our  home  is  in  the  red  deer's  den, 
Our  roof,  the  tree-top  overhead, 

For  we  are  wild  and  hunted  men. 

We  fly  by  day  and  shun  its  light, 

But,  prompt  to  strike  the  sudden  blow, 
We  mount  and  start  with  early  night, 

And  through  the  forest  track  our  foe. 
And  soon  he  hears  our  chargers  leap, 

The  flashing  saber  blinds  his  eyes, 
And  ere  he  drives  away  his  sleep, 

And  rushes  from  his  camp,  he  dies. 

Free  bridle-bit,  good  gallant  steed, 

That  will  not  ask  a  kind  caress 
To  swim  the  San  tee  at  our  need, 

When  on  his  heels  the  foemen  press,  — 
The  true  heart  and  the  ready  hand, 

The  spirit  stubborn  to  be  free, 
The  twisted  bore,  the  smiting  brand,  — 

And  we  are  Marion's  men,  you  see. 

[49] 


Now  light  the  fire  and  cook  the  meal, 

The  last  perhaps  that  we  shall  taste; 
I  hear  the  Swamp  Fox  round  us  steal, 

And  that's  a  sign  we  move  in  haste. 
He  whistles  to  the  scouts,  and  hark! 

You  hear  his  order  calm  and  low. 
Come,  wave  your  torch  across  the  dark, 

And  let  us  see  the  boys  that  go. 

We  may  not  see  their  forms  again, 

God  help  'em,  should  they  find  the  strife! 
For  they  are  strong  and  fearless  men, 

And  make  no  coward  terms  for  life; 
They'll  fight  as  long  as  Marion  bids, 

And  when  he  speaks  the  word  to  shy, 
Then,  not  till  then,  they  turn  their  steeds, 

Through  thickening  shade  and  swamp  to  fly. 

Now  stir  the  fire  and  lie  at  ease,  — 

The  scouts  are  gone,  and  on  the  brush 
I  see  the  Colonel  bend  his  knee, 

To  take  his  slumbers,  too.     But  hush! 
He's  praying,  comrades;  't  is  not  strange; 

The  man  that's  fighting  day  by  day 
May  well,  when  night  comes,  take  a  change, 

And  down  upon  his  knees  to  pray. 

Break  up  that  hoe-cake,  boys,  and  hand 
The  sly  and  silent  jug  that's  there; 

I  love  not  it  should  idly  stand 

When  Marion's  men  have  need  of  cheer. 

[So] 


'T  is  seldom  that  our  luck  affords 
A  stuff  like  this  we  just  have  quaffed, 

And  dry  potatoes  on  our  boards 
May  always  call  for  such  a  draught. 

Now  pile  the  brush  and  roll  the  log; 

Hard  pillow,  but  a  soldier's  head 
That's  half  the  time  in  brake  and  bog 

Must  never  think  of  softer  bed. 
The  owl  is  hooting  to  the  night, 

The  cooter  crawling  o'er  the  bank, 
And  in  that  pond  the  flashing  light 

Tells  where  the  alligator  sank. 

What!   't  is  the  signal!  start  so  soon, 

And  through  the  San  tee  swamp  so  deep, 
Without  the  aid  of  friendly  moon, 

And  we,  Heaven  help  us!  half  asleep! 
But  courage,   comrades!   Marion  leads, 

The  Swamp  Fox  takes  us  out  to-night; 
So  clear  your  swords  and  spur  your  steeds, 

There's  goodly  chance,  I  think,  of  fight. 

We  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox  guides, 

We  leave  the  swamp  and  cypress-tree, 
Our  spurs  are  in  our  coursers'  sides, 

And  ready  for  the  strife  are  we. 
The  Tory  camp  is  now  in  sight, 

And  there  he  cowers  within  his  den; 
He  hears  our  shouts,  he  dreads  the  fight, 

He  fears,  and  flies  from  Marion's  men. 

[51] 


MONTEREY 

BY  CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN 

We  were  not  many,  —  we  who  stood 

Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 

Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When   wounded   comrades   round   them   wailed 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on  —  still  on  our  column  kept, 

Through  walls  of  flame  its  withering  way; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And,  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 
And  there  our  evening  bugles  play; 

[52] 


Where  orange  boughs  above  their  grave, 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many,  —  we  who  pressed 
Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey? 


[53] 


THE  MINT  JULEP 

BY  CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN 

'T  is  said  that  the  gods  on  Olympus  of  old 

(And  who  the  bright  legend  profanes  with  a  doubt?) 

One  night,  'mid  their  revels,  by  Bacchus  were  told 
That  his  last  butt  of  nectar  had  somehow  run  out! 

But  determined  to  send  round  the  goblet  once  more, 
They  sued  to  the  fairer  immortals  for  aid 

In  composing  a  draught  which,  till  drinking  were  o'er, 
Should  cast  every  wine  ever  drank  in  the  shade. 

Grave  Ceres  herself  blithely  yielded  her  corn, 
And  the  spirit  that  lives  in  each  amber-hued  grain, 

And  which  first  had  its  birth  from  the  dew  of  the  morn, 
Was  taught  to  steal  out  in  bright  dewdrops  again. 

Pomona,  whose  choicest  of  fruits  on  the  board 
Were  scattered  profusely  in  every  one's  reach, 

When  called  on  a  tribute  to  cull  from  the  hoard, 
Expressed  the  mild  juice  of  the  delicate  peach. 

The  liquids  were  mingled  while  Venus  looked  on 
With  glances  so  fraught  with  sweet  magical  power, 

That  the  honey  of  Hybla,  e  'en  when  they  were  gone, 
Has  never  been  missed  in  the  draught  from  that 
hour. 

[54] 


Flora,  then,  from  her  bosom  of  fragrancy,  shook, 
And  with  roseate  fingers  pressed  down  in  the  bowl, 

All  dripping  and  fresh  as  it  came  from  the  brook, 
The  herb  whose  aroma  should  flavor  the  whole. 

The  draught  was  delicious,  and  loud  the  acclaim, 
Though  something  seemed  wanting  for  all  to  bewail, 

But  Juleps  the  drink  of  immortals  became, 
When  Jove  himself  added  a  handful  of  hail. 


[55] 


THE   TIDE    RISES,    THE   TIDE    FALLS 

BY  HENRY  WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

The  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls, 
The  twilight  darkens,  the  curlew  calls; 
Along  the  sea-sands  damp  and  brown 
The  traveler  hastens  toward  the  town, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

Darkness  settles  on  roofs  and  walls, 
But  the  sea,  the  sea  in  the  darkness  calls; 
The  little  waves,  with  their  soft,  white  hands, 
Efface  the  foot-prints  in  the  sands, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 

The  morning  breaks;  the  steeds  in  their  stalls 
Stamp  and  neigh,  as  the  hostler  calls; 
The  day  returns,  but  nevermore 
Returns  the  traveler  to  the  shore, 
And  the  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls. 


[56] 


THE  BELLS  OF  LYNN 

Heard  at  Nahant 

BY  HENRY   WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW 

O  curfew  of  the  setting  sun!     O  Bells  of  Lynn! 
O  requiem  of  the  dying  day!     0  Bells  of  Lynn! 

From   the   dark   belfries    of   yon    cloud-cathedral 

wafted, 
Your  sounds  aerial  seem  to  float,  O  Bells  of  Lynn! 

Borne  on  the  evening  wind  across  the  crimson  twi- 
light, 
O'er  land  and  sea  they  rise  and  fall,  O  Bells  of  Lynn! 

The  fisherman  in  his  boat,  far  out  beyond  the  head- 
land, 
Listens,  and  leisurely  rows  ashore,  O  Bells  of  Lynn! 

Over  the  shining  sands  the  wandering  cattle  home- 
ward 
Follow  each  other  at  your  call,  O  Bells  of  Lynn! 

The  distant  lighthouse  hears,  and  with  his  flaming 

signal 
Answers  you,  passing  the  watchword  on,  0  Bells  of 

Lynn! 

[57] 


And  down  the  darkening  coast  run  the  tumultuous 

surges, 
And  clap  their  hands,  and  shout  to  you,  0  Bells  of 

Lynn! 

Till  from  the  shuddering  sea,  with  your  wild  incanta- 
tions, 
Ye  summon  up  the  spectral  moon,  0  Bells  of  Lynn! 

And  startled  at  the  sight,  like  the  weird  woman  of 

Endor, 
Ye  cry  aloud,  and  then  are  still,  O  Bells  of  Lynn! 


[58] 


THE  BRIDGE 

BY  HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 
As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind  the  dark  church- tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 
The  biaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide. 

[59] 


And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers, 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  oh,  how  often, 
In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight. 
And  gazed  on  the  wave  and  sky! 

How  often,  oh,  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 


Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 
Of  care-encumbered  men, 
[6ol 


Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 
Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow! 

And  forever  and  forever, 

As  long  as  the  river  flows, 
As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 

As  long  as  life  has  woes; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


[61 


THE  ARROW  AND   THE   SONG 

BY  HENRY   WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 


[62 


ENDYMION 

BY  HENRY   WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW 

The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars; 

Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 

Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 

She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 

When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 

He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Diana's  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes, —  the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity, — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

[63] 


It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him  who  slumbering  lies. 

0  weary  hearts !     O  slumbering  eyes ! 
0  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds,  —  as  if  with  unseen  wings 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings; 

And  whispers,  in  its  song, 

" Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long?" 


[64] 


A  DUTCH  PICTURE 

BY  HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

Simon  Danz  has  come  home  again, 
From  cruising  about  with  his  buccaneers; 

He  has  singed  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 

And  carried  away  the  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sold  him  in  Algiers. 

In  his  house  by  the  Maese,  with  its  roof  of  tiles, 

And  weathercocks  flying  aloft  in  air, 
There  are  silver  tankards  of  antique  styles, 
Plunder  of  convent  and  castle,  and  piles 
Of  carpets  rich  and  rare. 

In  his  tulip-garden  there  by  the  town, 

Overlooking  the  sluggish  stream, 
With  his  Moorish  cap  and  dressing-gown, 
The  old  sea-captain,  hale  and  brown, 

Walks  in  a  waking  dream. 

A  smile  in  his  gray  mustachio  lurks 

Whenever  he  thinks  of  the  King  of  Spain, 

And  the  listed  tulips  look  like  Turks, 

And  the  silent  gardener  as  he  works 
Is  changed  to  the  Dean  of  Jaen. 

[■6s'] 


The  windmills  on  the  outermost 

Verge  of  the  landscape  in  the  haze, 
To  him  are  towers  on  the  Spanish  coast, 
With  whiskered  sentinels  at  their  post, 
Though  this  is  the  river  Maese. 

But  when  the  winter  rains  begin, 

He  sits  and  smokes  by  the  blazing  brands, 
And  old  sea-faring  men  come  in, 
Goat-bearded,  gray,  and  with  double  chin, 

And  rings  upon  their  hands. 

They  sit  there  in  the  shadow  and  shine 
Of  the  nickering  fire  of  the  winter  night; 

Figures  in  color  and  design 

Like  those  by  Rembrandt  of  the  Rhine, 
Half  darkness  and  half  light. 

And  they  talk  of  ventures  lost  or  won, 

And  their  talk  is  ever  and  ever  the  same, 
While  they  drink  the  red  wine  of  Tarragon, 
From  the  cellars  of  some  Spanish  Don, 
Or  convent  set  on  flame. 

Restless  at  times  with  heavy  strides 

He  paces  his  parlor  to  and  fro; 
He  is  like  a  ship  that  at  anchor  rides, 
And  swings  with  the  rising  and  falling  tides, 

And  tugs  at  her  anchor-tow. 
[66  1 


Voices  mysterious  far  and  near, 

Sound  of  the  wind  and  sound  of  the  sea, 
Are  calling  and  whispering  in  his  ear, 
"Simon  Danz!     Why  stayest  thou  here? 

Come  forth  and  follow  me!" 

So  he  thinks  he  shall  take  to  the  sea  again 
For  one  more  cruise  with  his  buccaneers, 
To  singe  the  beard  of  the  King  of  Spain, 
And  capture  another  Dean  of  Jaen 
And  sell  him  in  Algiers. 


[67] 


OLIVER  BASSELIN 

BY  HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire 

Still  is  seen  an  ancient  mill, 
With  its  gables  quaint  and  queer, 
And  beneath  the  window-sill, 
On  the  stone, 
These  words  alone: 
"  Oliver  Basselin  lived  here." 


Far  above  it,  on  the  steep, 

Ruined  stands  the  old  Chateau; 
Nothing  but  the  donjon-keep 
Left  for  shelter  or  for  show. 
Its  vacant  eyes 
Stare  at  the  skies, 
Stare  at  the  valley  green  and  deep. 


Once  a  convent,  old  and  brown, 

Looked,  but  ah!  it  looks  no  more, 
From  the  neighboring  hillside  down 
On  the  rushing  and  the  roar 
Of  the  stream 
Whose  sunny  gleam 
Cheers  the  little  Norman  town. 
[68  1 


In  that  darksome  mill  of  stone, 
To  the  water's  dash  and  din, 
Careless,  humble,  and  unknown, 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin 
Songs  that  fill 
That  ancient  mill 
With  a  splendor  of  its  own. 

Never  feeling  of  unrest 

Broke  the  pleasant  dream  he  dreamed; 
Only  made  to  be  his  nest, 
All  the  lovely  valley  seemed; 
No  desire 
Of  soaring  higher 
Stirred  or  fluttered  in  his  breast. 

True,  his  songs  were  not  divine; 

Were  not  songs  of  that  high  art, 
Which,  as  winds  do  in  the  pine, 
Find  an  answer  in  each  heart; 
But  the  mirth 
Of  this  green  earth 
Laughed  and  revelled  in  his  line. 

From  the  alehouse  and  the  inn, 
Opening  on  the  narrow  street, 
Came  the  loud,  convivial  din, 
Singing  and  applause  of  feet, 
The  laughing  lays 
That  in  those  days 
Sang  the  poet  Basselin. 

[69] 


In  the  castle,  cased  in  steel, 

Knights,  who  fought  at  Agincourt, 
Watched  and  waited,  spur  on  heel; 
But  the  poet  sang  for  sport 
Songs  that  rang 
Another  clang, 
Songs  that  lowlier  hearts  could  feel. 

In  the  convent,  clad  in  gray, 

Sat  the  monks  in  lonely  cells, 
Paced  the  cloisters,  knelt  to  pray, 
And  the  poet  heard  their  bells; 
But  his  rhymes 
Found  other  chimes, 
Nearer  to  the  earth  than  they. 

Gone  are  all  the  barons  bold, 

Gone  are  all  the  knights  and  squires, 
Gone  the  abbot  stern  and  cold, 
And  the  brotherhood  of  friars; 
Not  a  name 
Remains  to  fame, 
From  those  mouldering  days  of  old! 

But  the  poet's  memory  here 

Of  the  landscape  makes  a  part; 
Like  the  river,  swift  and  clear, 

Flows  his  song  through  many  a  heart; 
Haunting  still 
That  ancient  mill 
In  the  Valley  of  the  Vire. 


CHRYSAOR 

BY  HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

Just  above  yon  sandy  bar, 

As  the  day  grows  fainter  and  dimmer, 
Lonely  and  lovely,  a  single  star 

Lights  the  air  with  a  dusky  glimmer. 

Into  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Falls  the  trail  of  its  golden  splendor, 

And  the  gleam  of  that  single  star 
Is  ever  refulgent,  soft  and  tender. 

Chrysaor,  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

Showed  thus  glorious  and  thus  emulous, 
Leaving  the  arms  of  Callirrhoe, 

Forever  tender,  soft,  and  tremulous. 

Thus  o'er  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Trailed  the  gleam  of  his  falchion  brightly; 

Is  it  a  God,  or  is  it  a  star 
That,  entranced,  I  gaze  on  nightly! 


[71] 


SONG 

BY  HENRY   WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW 

Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest; 
Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest, 
For  those  that  wander  they  know  not  where 
Are  full  of  trouble  and  full  of  care; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Weary  and  homesick  and  distressed, 
They  wander  east,  they  wander  west, 
And  are  baffled  and  beaten  and  blown  about 
By  the  winds  of  the  wilderness  of  doubt; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Then  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest; 
The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest; 
O'er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and  fly 
A  hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky; 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 


72] 


POSSIBILITIES 

BY  HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

Where  are  the  Poets,  unto  whom  belong 

The  Olympian  heights;   whose  singing  shafts  were 

sent 
Straight  to  the  mark,  and  not  from  bows  half  bent, 
But  with  the  utmost  tension  of  the  thong? 

Where  are  the  stately  argosies  of  song, 

Whose  rushing  keels  made  music  as  they  went 
Sailing  in  search  of  some  new  continent, 
With  all  sail  set,  and  steady  winds  and  strong? 

Perhaps  there  lives  some  dreamy  boy,  untaught 
In  schools,  some  graduate  of  the  field  or  street, 
Who  shall  become  a  master  of  the  art, 

An  admiral  sailing  the  high  seas  of  thought, 
Fearless  and  first,  and  steering  with  his  fleet 
For  lands  not  yet  laid  down  in  any  chart. 


[73 


MY  LOST  YOUTH 

BY  HENRY  WADS  WORTH  LONGFELLOW 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 
And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 
And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  the  far-surrounding  seas, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea- tides  tossing  free; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 

And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

[74] 


And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill; 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 
And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea-fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  o'er  the  tide! 
And  the  dead  captains,  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves,  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 

The  shadows  of  Deering's  woods; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 

In  quiet  neighborhoods. 
And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song, 

[75] 


It  flutters  and  murmurs  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  school-boy's  brain; 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 
Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 

And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on,  and  is  never  still: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


ak, 


There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill: 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  each  well-known  street, 
As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
Are  sighing  and  whispering  still: 

[76] 


"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


And  Deering's  woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were, 
I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 
And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


[77] 


PROEM 

BY  JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

I  love  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning 
dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad,  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife, 
are  here. 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

[78] 


Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 
The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 

Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 
A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

0  Freedom !  if  to  me  belong 

Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 
Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 

As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine! 


[79] 


ICHABOD 

BY  JOHN   GREENLEAE   WHITTIER 

So  fallen!  so  lost!  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore ! 

Revile  him  not,  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall! 

Oh,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn!  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 
[Sol 


But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 

Save  power  remains; 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame! 


[8iJ 


THE  BAREFOOT  BOY 

BY  JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy ! 
Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 
Only  is  republican. 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye,  — 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 

r  s2 1 


Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans ! 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 

[83] 


For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy! 


Oh  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread; 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch:  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy! 


Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat: 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil: 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boyl 


[8S] 


LEXINGTON 

1775 

BY   JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

No  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they, 
No  battle-joy  was  theirs,  who  set 
Against  the  alien  bayonet 

Their  homespun  breasts  in  that  old  day. 

Their  feet  had  trodden  peaceful  ways; 

They  loved  not  strife,  they  dreaded  pain; 

They  saw  not,  what  to  us  is  plain, 
That  God  would  make  man's  wrath  his  praise 

No  seers  were  they,  but  simple  men; 
Its  vast  results  the  future  hid : 
The  meaning  of  the  work  they  did 

Was  strange  and  dark  and  doubtful  then. 

Swift  as  their  summons  came  they  left 
The  plow  mid-furrow  standing  still, 
The  half-ground  corn  grist  in  the  mill, 

The  spade  in  earth,  the  axe  in  cleft. 

They  went  where  duty  seemed  to  call, 
They  scarcely  asked  the  reason  why; 
They  only  knew  they  could  but  die, 

And  death  was  not  the  worst  of  all! 
[861 


Of  man  for  man  the  sacrifice, 
All  that  was  theirs  to  give,  they  gave. 
The  flowers  that  blossomed  from  their  grave 

Have  sown  themselves  beneath  all  skies. 

Their  death-shot  shook  the  feudal  tower, 
And  shattered  slavery's  chain  as  well; 
On  the  sky's  dome,  as  on  a  bell, 

Its  echo  struck  the  world's  great  hour. 

That  fateful  echo  is  not  dumb : 
The  nations  listening  to  its  sound 
Wait,  from  a  century's  vantage-ground, 

The  holier  triumphs  yet  to  come,  — 

The  bridal  time  of  Law  and  Love, 
The  gladness  of  the  world's  release, 
When,  war-sick,  at  the  feet  of  Peace 

The  hawk  shall  nestle  with  the  dove!  — 

The  golden  age  of  brotherhood 

Unknown  to  other  rivalries 

Than  of  the  mild  humanities, 
And  gracious  interchange  of  good, 

When  closer  strand  shall  lean  to  strand, 
Till  meet,  beneath  saluting  flags, 
The  eagle  of  our  mountain-crags, 

The  lion  of  our  Motherland! 


87] 


THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS 

BY  JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

I  wandered  lonely  where  the  pine-trees  made 
Against  the  bitter  east  their  barricade, 

And,  guided  by  its  sweet 
Perfume,  I  found,  within  a  narrow  dell, 
The  trailing  spring-flower  tinted  like  a  shell 

Amid  dry  leaves  and  mosses  at  my  feet. 

From  under  dead  boughs,  for  whose  loss  the  pines 
Moaned  ceaseless  overhead,  the  blossoming  vines 

Lifted  their  glad  surprise, 
While  yet  the  bluebird  smoothed  in  leafless  trees 
His  feathers  ruffled  by  the  chill  sea-breeze, 

And  snow-drifts  lingered  under  April  skies. 

As,  pausing,  o'er  the  lonely  flower  I  bent, 

I  thought  of  lives  thus  lowly,  clogged  and  pent, 

Which  yet  find  room, 
Through  care  and  cumber,  coldness  and  decay, 
To  lend  a  sweetness  to  the  ungenial  day 

And  make  the  sad  earth  happier  for  their  bloom. 


[88] 


UNITY 

BY    JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  our  severing  ways, 

The  separate  altars  that  we  raise, 

The  varying  tongues  that  speak  Thy  praise! 

Suffice  it  now.     In  time  to  be 
Shall  one  great  temple  rise  to  Thee, 
Thy  church  our  broad  humanity. 

White  flowers  of  love  its  walls  shall  climb, 
Sweet  bells  of  peace  shall  ring  its  chime, 
Its  days  shall  all  be  holy  time. 

The  hymn,  long  sought,  shall  then  be  heard, 
The  music  of  the  world's  accord, 
Confessing  Christ,  the  inward  word! 

That  song  shall  swell  from  shore  to  shore, 
One  faith,  one  love,  one  hope  restore 
The  seamless  garb  that  Jesus  wore ! 

Asquam  House,  Holderness,  N.  H., 
Seventh  Month,  28,  1883. 


[89] 


LAUS  DEO 

[On  hearing  the  bells  ring  on  the  passage  of  the  constitutional 
amendment  abolishing  slavery.] 

BY  JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

It  is  done! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town! 

Ring,  0  bells! 

Every  stroke  exulting  tells 
Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 

Ring  for  every  listening  ear 
Of  Eternity  and  Time! 

Let  us  kneel: 

God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 
And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 

Lord,  forgive  us !     What  are  we, 

That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 
That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound! 

For  the  Lord 
On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad; 

[90] 


In  the  earthquake  he  has  spoken; 

He  has  smitten  with  his  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder, 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken! 

Loud  and  long 
Lift  the  old  exulting  song; 

Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea, 
He  has  cast  the  mighty  down; 
Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown; 

"He  hath  triumphed  gloriously !" 

Did  we  dare, 

In  our  agony  of  prayer, 
Ask  for  more  than  He  has  done? 

When  was  ever  His  right  hand 

Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun? 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  lawr 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise! 

Blotted  out! 

All  within  and  all  about 
Shall  a  fresher  life  begin; 

Freer  breathe  the  universe 

As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 
On  the  dead  and  buried  sin! 

[91] 


It  is  done! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth! 

Ring  and  swing, 
Bells  of  joy!     On  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns. 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God! 


[92] 


THE  MAYFLOWERS 

BY  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

[The  trailing  arbutus,  or  mayflower,  grows  abundantly  in  the 
vicinity  of  Plymouth,  and  was  the  first  flower  that  greeted  the 
Pilgrims  after  their  fearful  winter.] 

Sad  Mayflower!  watched  by  winter  stars, 

And  nursed  by  winter  gales, 
With  petals  of  the  sleeted  spars, 

And  leaves  of  frozen  sails! 

What  had  she  in  those  dreary  hours, 

Within  her  ice-rimmed  bay, 
In  common  with  the  wild-wood  flowers, 

The  first  sweet  smiles  of  May? 

Yet,  "God  be  praised!"  the  Pilgrim  said, 

Who  saw  the  blossoms  peer 
Above  the  brown  leaves,  dry  and  dead, 

" Behold  our  Mayflower  here! 

"God  wills  it:  here  our  rest  shall  be, 

Our  years  of  wandering  o'er; 
For  us  the  Mayflower  of  the  sea 

Shall  spread  her  sails  no  more." 

O  sacred  flowers  of  faith  and  hope, 
As  sweetly  now  as  then 

[93] 


Ye  bloom  on  many  a  birchen  slope, 
In  many  a  pine-dark  glen. 

Behind  the  sea- wall's  rugged  length, 

Unchanged,  your  leaves  unfold, 
Like  love  behind  the  manly  strength 

Of  the  brave  hearts  of  old. 

So  live  the  fathers  in  their  sons, 

Their  sturdy  faith  be  ours, 
And  ours  the  love  that  overruns 

Its  rocky  strength  with  flowers. 

The  Pilgrim's  wild  and  wintry  day 

Its  shadow  round  us  draws; 
The  Mayflower  of  his  stormy  bay, 

Our  Freedom's  struggling  cause. 

But  warmer  suns  erelong  shall  bring 

To  life  the  frozen  sod; 
And,  through  dead  leaves  of  hope,  shall  spring 

Afresh  the  flowers  of  God! 


[94] 


THE  CARDINAL  BIRD 


BY  WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 

A  day  and  then  a  week  passed  by: 
The  redbird  hanging  from  the  sill 
Sang  not;  and  all  were  wondering  why 

It  was  so  still  — 
When  one  bright  morning,  loud  and  clear, 
Its  whistle  smote  my  drowsy  ear, 
Ten  times  repeated,  till  the  sound 
Filled  every  echoing  niche  around; 
And  all  things  earliest  loved  by  me, — 
The  bird,  the  brook,  the  flower,  the  tree,— 
Came  back  again,  as  thus  I  heard 
The  cardinal  bird. 


Where  maple  orchards  towered  aloft, 

And  spicewood  bushes  spread  below, 
Where  skies  were  blue,  and  winds  were  soft, 

I  could  but  go  — 
For,  opening  through  a  wildering  haze, 
Appeared  my  restless  childhood's  days; 
And  truant  feet  and  loitering  mood 
Soon  found  me  in  the  same  old  wood 
(Illusion's  hour  but  seldom  brings 
So  much  the  very  form  of  things  ) 
Where  first  I  sought,  and  saw,  and  heard 
The  cardinal  bird. 

Then  came  green  meadows,  broad  and  bright, 

[95] 


Where  dandelions,  with  wealth  untold, 
Gleamed  on  the  young  and  eager  sight 

Like  stars  of  gold; 
And  on  the  very  meadow's  edge, 
Beneath  the  ragged  blackberry  hedge, 
Mid  mosses  golden,  gray,  and  green, 
The  fresh  young  buttercups  were  seen, 
And  small  spring-beauties,  sent  to  be 
The  heralds  of  anemone: 
All  just  as  when  I  earliest  heard 

The  cardinal  bird. 

Upon  the  gray  old  forest's  rim 

I  snuffed  the  crab-tree's  sweet  perfume; 
And  farther,  where  the  light  was  dim, 

I  saw  the  bloom 
Of  May-apples,  beneath  the  tent 
Of  umbrel  leaves  above  them  bent; 
Where  oft  was  shifting  light  and  shade 
The  blue-eyed  ivy  wildly  strayed; 
And  Solomon's-seal,  in  graceful  play, 
Swung  where  the  straggling  sunlight  lay: 
The  same  as  when  I  earliest  heard 

The  cardinal  bird. 

And  on  the  slope,  above  the  rill 
That  wound  among  the  sugar-trees, 

I  heard  them  at  their  labors  still, 
The  murmuring  bees : 

Bold  foragers!  that  come  and  go 

Without  permit  from  friend  or  foe; 

[96] 


In  the  tall  tulip-trees  o'erhead 
On  pollen  greedily  they  fed, 
And  from  low  purple  phlox,  that  grew 
About  my  feet,  sipped  honey-dew :  — 
How  like  the  scenes  when  first  I  heard 
The  cardinal  bird! 

How  like !  —  and  yet  .  .  .  The  spell  grows  weak : 

Ah,  but  I  miss  the  sunny  brow  — 
The  sparkling  eye  —  the  ruddy  cheek! 

Where,  where  are  now 
The  three  who  then  beside  me  stood 
Like  sunbeams  in  the  dusky  wood? 
Alas,  I  am  alone!     Since  then 
They've  trod  the  weary  ways  of  men : 
One  on  the  eve  of  manhood  died; 
Two  in  its  flush  of  power  and  pride. 
Their  graves  are  green,  where  first  we  heard 

The  cardinal  bird. 

The  redbird,  from  the  window  hung, 
Not  long  my  fancies  thus  beguiled: 
Again  in  maple-groves  it  sung 

Its  wood-notes  wild; 
For,  rousing  with  a  tearful  eye, 
I  gave  it  to  the  trees  and  sky ! 
I  missed  so  much  those  brothers  three, 
Who  walked  youth's  flowery  ways  with  me, 
I  could  not,  dared  not  but  believe 
It  too  had  brothers,  that  would  grieve 
Till  in  old  haunts  again  't  was  heard,  — 
The  cardinal  bird. 

[97] 


FAITH 

BY  RAY  PALMER 

My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee, 
Thou  Lamb  of  Calvary, 

Saviour  divine! 
Now  hear  me  while  I  pray, 
Take  all  my  guilt  away, 
0  let  me  from  this  day 

Be  wholly  Thine! 

May  Thy  rich  grace  impart 
Strength  to  my  fainting  heart, 

My  zeal  inspire; 
As  Thou  hast  died  for  me, 
0  may  my  love  for  Thee 
Pure,  warm,  and  changeless  be, 

A  living  fire ! 

While  life's  dark  maze  I  tread, 
And  griefs  around  me  spread, 

Be  Thou  my  guide; 
Bid  darkness  turn  to  day, 
Wipe  sorrow's  tears  away, 
Nor  let  me  ever  stray 

From  Thee  aside. 

[98] 


When  ends  life's  transient  dream, 
When  death's  cold,  sullen  stream 

Shall  o'er  me  roll; 
Blest  Saviour,  then,  in  love, 
Fear  and  distrust  remove; 
O  bear  me  safe  above, 

A  ransomed  soul ! 


[99] 


THE   CITY  IN  THE   SEA 

BY   EDGAR   ALLAN   POE 

Lo!   Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 

In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 

Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst  and  the 

best 
Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest. 
There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 
Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 
The  melancholy  waters  He. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 
On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town; 
But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 
Streams  up  the  turrets  silently, 
Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free: 
Up  domes,  up  spires,  up  kingly  halls, 
Up  fanes,  up  Babylon-like  walls, 
Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 
Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers, 
Up  many  and  many  a  marvelous  shrine 
Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 
The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 

[  ioo] 


Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 

While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 

Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves; 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie    . 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye,  — 

Not  the  gaily-jeweled  dead 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed; 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas, 

Along  that  wilderness  of  glass; 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea; 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been 

On  seas  less  hideously  serene! 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air! 
The  wave  —  there  is  a  movement  there ! 
As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 
In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide; 
As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 
A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven! 
The-  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow, 
The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low; 
And   when,    amid    no    earthly   moans, 
Down,   down   that  town  shall  settle  hence, 
Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 
Shall  do  it  reverence. 

[101] 


ISRAFEL 

And  the  angel  Israfel,  whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute,  and  who 
has  the  sweetest  voice  of  all  God's  creatures.  —  Koran. 

BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 
" Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute"; 

None  sing  so  wildly  well 

As  the  angel  Israfel, 

And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell), 

Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 
Of  his  voice,  all  mute. 

Tottering  above 

In  her  highest  noon, 

The  enamored  moon 
Blushes  with  love, 

While,  to  listen,  the  red  levin 

(With  the  rapid  Pleiads,  even, 

Which  were  seven) 

Pauses  in  Heaven. 

And  they  say  (the  starry  choir 
And  the  other  listening  things) 

That  Israfeli's  fire 

Is  owing  to  that  lyre 

By  which  he  sits  and  sings, 

The  trembling  living  wire 
Of  those  unusual  strings. 


But  the  skies  that  angel  trod, 

Where  deep  thoughts  are  a  duty, 
Where  Love  's  a  grown-up  god, 

Where  the  Houri  glances  are 
Imbued  with  all  the  beauty 

Which  we  worship  in  a  star. 

Therefore,  thou  art  not  wrong, 

Israfeli,  who  despisest 
An  unimpassioned  song; 
To  thee  the  laurels  belong, 

Best  bard,  because  the  wisest: 
Merrily  live  and  long! 

The  ecstasies  above 
With  thy  burning  measures  suit: 

Thy  grief,  thy  joy,  thy  hate,  thy  love, 
With  the  fervor  of  thy  lute: 
Well  may  the  stars  be  mute! 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine;  but  this 
Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours; 
Our  flowers  are  merely  —  flowers, 

And  the  shadow  of  thy  perfect  bliss 
Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

[  103] 


THE  BELLS 

BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells, 
Silver  bells! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon! 
[  104] 


Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 

What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells! 

How  it  swells! 

How  it  dwells 

On  the  Future!  how  it  tells 

Of  the  rapture  that  impels 

To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, 
Brazen  bells! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire, 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now  —  now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  Despair! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar! 

[105] 


What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 
Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, — 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Iron  bells! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people  —  ah,  the  people, 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 
[106I 


On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman, 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human, 

They  are  Ghouls: 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 
Rolls  — 

A  paean  from  the  bells; 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells, 
And  he  dances  and  he  yells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells: 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells  — 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells: 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells  — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


[107] 


ANNABEL  LEE 

BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea: 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me; 
Yes !  that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

[108I 


In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 
Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above. 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee: 

For  the  moon  never  beams,  without  bringing  me 
dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of   my  darling,  —  my   darling,  —  my   life   and  my 
bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


[109 


ULALUME 

BY   EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober: 
The  leaves  they  were  crisped  and  sere, 
The  leaves  they  were  withering  and  sere: 

It  was  night  in  the  lonesome  October 
Of  my  most  immemorial  year; 

It  was  hard  by  the  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
In  the  misty  midregion  of  Weir: 

It  was  down  by  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber, 
In  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

Here  once,  through  an  alley  Titanic 
Of  cypress,  I  roamed  with  my  Soul  — 
Of  cypress,  with  Pysche,  my  Soul. 

These  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic 
As  the  scoriae  rivers  that  roll, 
As  the  lavas  that  restlessly  roll 

Their  sulphurous  currents  down  Yaanek 
In  the  ultimate  climes  of  the  pole, 

That  groan  as  they  roll  down  Mount  Yaanek 
In  the  realms  of  the  boreal  pole. 

Our  talk  had  been  serious  and  sober, 

But  our  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere, 
Our  memories  were  treacherous  and  sere, 
[no] 


For  we  knew  not  the  month  was  October, 
And  we  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year, 
(Ah,  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year!) 

We  noted  not  the  dim  lake  of  Auber 

(Though  once  we  had  journeyed  down  here), 

Remembered  not  the  dank  tarn  of  Auber 
Nor  the  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Weir. 

And  now,  as  the  night  was  senescent 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 

As  the  star-dials  hinted  of  morn, 
At  the  end  of  our  path  a  liquescent 

And  nebulous  lustre  was  born, 
Out  of  which  a  miraculous  crescent 

Arose  with  a  duplicate  horn, 
Astarte's  bediamonded  crescent 

Distinct  with  its  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said  —  "She  is  warmer  than  Dian: 
She  rolls  through  an  ether  of  sighs, 
She  revels  in  a  region  of  sighs: 

She  has  seen  that  the  tears  are  not  dry  on 
These  cheeks,  where  the  worm  never  dies, 

And  has  come  past  the  stars  of  the  Lion, 
To  point  us  the  path  to  the  skies, 
To  the  Lethean  peace  of  the  skies: 

Come  up,  in  despite  of  the  Lion, 

To  shine  on  us  with  her  bright  eyes: 

Come  up  through  the  lair  of  the  Lion, 
With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes." 

[in] 


But  Psyche,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said  —  "Sadly  this  star  I  mistrust, 
Her  pallor  I  strangely  mistrust: 

Oh,  hasten !  —  oh,  let  us  not  linger ! 
Oh,  fly!  —  let  us  fly!  —  for  we  must." 

In  terror  she  spoke,  letting  sink  her 
Wings  until  they  trailed  in  the  dust; 

In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 
Plumes  till  they  trailed  in  the  dust, 
Till  they  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

I  replied  —  "This  is  nothing  but  dreaming: 
Let  us  on  by  this  tremulous  light! 
Let  us  bathe  in  this  crystalline  light! 

Its  sibyllic  splendor  is  beaming 

With  hope  and  in  beauty  to-night: 

See,  it  flickers  up  the  sky  through  the  night! 

Ah,  we  safely  may  trust  to  its  gleaming, 
And  be  sure  it  will  lead  us  aright: 

We  safely  may  trust  to  a  gleaming 
That  cannot  but  guide  us  aright, 

Since  it  flickers  up  to  Heaven  through  the 
night." 

Thus  I  pacified  Psyche  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  out  of  her  gloom, 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 
But  were  stopped  by  the  door  of  a  tomb, 
By  the  door  of  a  legended  tomb; 

And  I  said  —  "What  is  written,  sweet  sister, 

[112] 


On  the  door  of  this  legended  tomb?" 
She  replied  —  "Ulalume  —  Ulalume  — 
Tis  the  vault  of  thy  lost  Ulalume!" 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 
As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere, 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 

And  I  cried  —  "-It  was  surely  October 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year 
That  I  journeyed  —  I  journeyed  down  here, 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here: 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  has  tempted  me  here? 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dim  lake  of  Auber, 
This  misty  mid-region  of  Weir: 

Well  I  know,  now,  this  dark  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of*  Weir." 


[113] 


OLD  IRONSIDES 

BY   OLIVER   WENDELL  HOLMES 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle-shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea! 

O,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale! 

[114] 


THE   CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS 

BY   OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming 
hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 


Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old 
no  more. 


Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a   voice 
that  sings :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  0  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll! 

Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free. 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea! 


[116 


THE  BOYS 

1859 

BY   OLIVER  WENDELL      HOLMES 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys? 
If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making  a  noise. 
Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Catalogue's  spite! 
Old  Time  is  a  liar!     We're  twenty  to-night! 

We're  twenty!     We're  twenty!    Who  says  we  are 

more? 
He's  tipsy, — young  jackanapes!  —  show    him    the 

door! 
"Gray    temples    at    twenty?" — Yes,    white   if    we 

please; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there's  nothing 

can  freeze! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of?     Excuse  the  mistake! 
Look  close,  —  you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a  flake ! 
We   want   some   new   garlands   for   those   we   have 

shed,  — 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We've  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  have  been 

told, 
Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old:  — 

[117] 


That  boy  we  call  "  Doctor,"  and  this  we  call  "Judge"; 
It's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course  it's  all  fudge. 

That  fellow's  the  "Speaker,"  —  the  one  on  the  right; 
"Mr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to-night? 
That's  our  "Member  of  Congress,"  we  say  when  we 

chaff; 
There's  the  "Reverend"  What's  his  name?  — don't 

make  me  laugh. 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 
Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful  book, 
And  the  Royal  Society  thought  it  was  true  I 
So  they  chose  him  right  in;  a  good,  joke  it  was,  too! 

There's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-decker  brain, 
That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical  chain; 
When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire, 
We  called  him  "The  Justice,"  but  now  he's  "The 
Squire." 

And  there's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith,  — 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith; 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free,  — 
Just  read  on  his  medal,  "My  country,"  "of  thee!" 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing?  — You  think  he's  all  fun; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he  has  done; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call, 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest 
of  all! 

[118] 


Yes,  we're  boys,  —  always  playing  with  tongue  or 

with  pen,  — 
And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  —  Shall  we  ever  be 

men? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing,  and  gay, 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away? 

Then  here's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray! 
The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  May! 
And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children,  the  Boys! 


[119] 


THE  ANGELS'   SONG 

BY   EDMUND   HAMILTON   SEARS 

It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear, 

That  glorious  song  of  old, 
From  angels  bending  near  the  earth 

To  touch  their  harps  of  gold : 
"  Peace  to  the  earth,  good- will  to  men 

From  heaven's  all-gracious  King!" 
The  world  in  solemn  stillness  lay 

To  hear  the  angels  sing. 

Still  through  the  cloven  skies  they  come, 

With  peaceful  wings  unfurled; 
And  still  their  heavenly  music  floats 

O'er  all  the  weary  world: 
Above  its  sad  and  lowly  plains 

They  bend  on  heavenly  wing, 
And  ever  o'er  its  Babel  sounds 

The  blessed  angels  sing. 

Yet  with  the  woes  of  sin  and  strife 

The  world  has  suffered  long; 
Beneath  the  angel-strain  have  rolled 

Two  thousand  years  of  wrong; 
And  man,  at  war  with  man,  hears  not 

The  love-song  which  they  bring : 
O,  hush  the  noise,  ye  men  of  strife, 

And  hear  the  angels  sing ! 
[  120] 


And  ye,  beneath  life's  crushing  load 

Whose  forms  are  bending  low; 
Who  toil  along  the  climbing  way 

With  painful  steps  and  slow,  — 
Look  now !  for  glad  and  golden  hours 

Come  swiftly  on  the  wing; 
O,  rest  beside  the  weary  road, 

And  hear  the  angels  sing. 

For  lo !  the  days  are  hastening  on, 

By  prophet-bards  foretold, 
When  with  the  ever-circling  years 

Comes  round  the  age  of  gold; 
When  Peace  shall  over  all  the  earth 

Its  ancient  splendors  fling, 
And  the  whole  world  send  back  the  song 

Which  now  the  angels  sing. 


t"i] 


TO  THE  BOY 

Who  Goes  Daily  Past  my  Windows  Singing 

by  elizabeth  clementine  kinney 

Thou  happiest  thing  alive, 

Anomaly  of  earth! 
If  sound  thy  lineage  give, 
Thou  art  the  natural  birth 

Of  affluent  Joy  — 
Thy  mother's  name  was  Mirth, 
Thou  little  singing  boy! 

Thy  star  —  it  was  a  sun! 

Thy  time  the  month  of  May, 
When  streams  to  music  run 
And  birds  sing  all  the  day: 

Nature  did  tune 
Thy  gushing  voice  by  hers; 

A  fount  in  June 
Not  more  the  bosom  stirs; 

A  freshness  flows 
Through  every  bubbling  note,  — 

Sure  Nature  knows 
The  strains  Art  never  wrote. 

Where  was  the  human  curse, 

When  thou  didst  spring  to  life? 
All  feel  it  less,  or  worse, 
[  122] 


In  pain,  in  care,  in  strife. 

Its  dreadful  word 
Fell  from  the  lips  of  Truth; 

'Tis  but  deferred, 
Unconscious  youth! 

That  curse  on  thee 
Is  sure  some  day  to  fall; 

Alas,  more  heavily 
If  Manhood  takes  it  all! 

I  will  not  think  of  this  — 
It  robs  me  of  my  part 
In  thy  outgushing  bliss : 

No !  keep  thy  glad  young  heart 
Turned  toward  the  sun ;  — 
What  yet  shall  be, 
None  can  foresee : 
One  thing  is  sure  —  that  thou  hast  well  begun ! 

Meantime  shall  others  share, 

Wild  minstrel-boy, 
As  I,  to  lighten  care, 

The  music  of  thy  joy,  — 

Like  scents  of  flowers, 

Along  life's  wayside  passed 

In  dreary  hours,  — 
Too  sweet  to  last; 
Like  touches  soft 
Of  Nature,  on  those  strings 
Within  us,  jarred  so  oft 
By  earth's  discordant  things. 

•I  "3l 


THE  VOICE  OF   THE  GRASS 

BY   SARAH  ROBERTS  BOYLE 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 

By  the  dusty  roadside, 

On  the  sunny  hillside, 

Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 

In  every  shady  nook, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  smiling  everywhere; 

All  around  the  open  door, 

Where  sit  the  aged  poor; 

Here  where  the  children  play, 

In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 

In  the  noisy  city  street 

My  pleasant  face  you'll  meet, 

Cheering  the  sick  at  heart 

Toning  his  busy  part,  — 
Silently  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 
You  cannot  see  me  coming, 
Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming; 
For  in  the  starry  night, 

[124] 


And  the  glad  morning  light, 
I  come  quietly  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 

More  welcome  than  the  flowers 

In  summer's  pleasant  hours: 

The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 

And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 
To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 
When  you're  numbered  with  the  dead 
In  your  still  and  narrow  bed, 
In  the  happy  spring  I'll  come 
And  deck  your  silent  home  — 

Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere; 

My  humble  song  of  praise 

Most  joyfully  I  raise 

To  Him  at  whose  command 

I  beautify  the  land, 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 


[125] 


THE   OTHER  WORLD 

BY   HARRIET   ELIZABETH    BEECHER   STOWE 

It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud, 

The  world  we  do  not  see; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye 

May  bring  us  there  to  be. 

Its  gentle  breezes  fan  our  cheeks 

Amid  our  worldly  cares; 
Its  gentle  voices  whisper  love, 

And  mingle  with  our  prayers. 

Sweet  hearts  around  us  throb  and  beat, 
Sweet  helping  hands  are  stirred, 

And  palpitates  the  veil  between, 
With  breathings  almost  heard. 


The  silence  —  awful,  sweet,  and  calm 
They  have  no  power  to  break; 

For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 
To  utter  or  partake. 

So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet  they  glide, 
So  near  to  press  they  seem,  — 

They  seem  to  lull  us  to  our  rest, 
They  melt  into  our  dream. 
f  126  1 


And,  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring, 

'T  is  easy  now  to  see 
How  lovely  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be. 

To  close  the  eye  and  close  the  ear, 
Wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss, 

And,  gently  drawn  in  loving  arms, 
To  swoon  from  that  —  to  this ! 

Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep, 
Scarce  asking  where  we  are, 

To  feel  all  evil  sink  away, 
All  sorrow  and  all  care! 

Sweet  souls  around  us !  watch  us  still. 

Press  nearer  to  our  side, 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers, 

With  gentle  helping  glide. 

Let  death  between  us  be  as  naught, 
A  dried  and  vanished  stream; 

Your  joy  be  the  reality, 

Our  suffering  life  the  dream. 


[127] 


THE  IDLER 


BY  JONES   VERY 


I  idle  stand  that  I  may  find  employ, 

Such  as  my  Master  when  He  comes  will  give; 

I  cannot  find  in  mine  own  work  my  joy, 

But  wait,  although  in  waiting  I  must  five; 

My  body  shall  not  turn  which  way  it  will, 

But  stand  till  I  the  appointed  road  can  find, 

And  journeying  so  his  messages  fulfil, 

And  do  at  every  step  the  work  designed. 

Enough  for  me,  still  day  by  day  to  wait 

Till  Thou  who  formest  me  findest  me  too  a  task, 

A  cripple  lying  at  the  rich  man's  gate, 

Content  for  the  few  crumbs  I  get  to  ask, 

A  laborer  but  in  heart,  while  bound  my  hands 

Hang  idly  down  still  waiting  thy  commands. 


[128 


MY  MOTHER'S  VOICE 

BY   JONES   VERY 

My  mother's  voice !    I  hear  it  now, 
I  feel  her  hand  upon  my  brow, 

As  when  in  heartfelt  joy 
She  raised  her  evening  hymn  of  praise, 
And  called  down  blessings  on  the  days 

Of  her  loved  boy. 

My  mother's  voice !    I  hear  it  now, 
Her  hand  is  on  my  burning  brow, 

As  in  that  early  hour 
When  fever  throbbed  through  all  my  veins, 
And  that  fond  hand  first  soothed  my  pains 

With  healing  power. 

My  mother's  voice !     It  sounds  as  when 
She  read  to  me  of  holy  men, 

The  Patriarchs  of  old: 
And,  gazing  downward  on  my  face, 
She  seemed  each  infant  thought  to  trace 

My  young  eyes  told. 

It  comes  —  when  thoughts  unhallowed  throng, 
Woven  in  sweet  deceptive  song  — 

And  whispers  round  my  heart; 
As  when  at  eve  it  rose  on  high, 
[129] 


I  hear  and  think  that  she  is  nigh, 
And  they  depart. 

Though  round  my  heart  all,  all  beside, 
The  voice  of  Friendship,  Love,  had  died, 

That  voice  would  linger  there ; 
As  when,  soft  pillowed  on  her  breast, 
Its  tones  first  lulled  my  infant  rest 

Or  rose  in  prayer. 


[  130  1 


THE  LATTER  RAIN 

BY   JONES   VERY 

The  latter  rain,  —  it  falls  in  anxious  haste 
Upon  the  sun-dried  fields  and  branches  bare, 
Loosening  with  searching  drops  the  rigid  waste 
As  if  it  would  each  root's  lost  strength  repair; 
But  not  a  blade  grows  green  as  in  the  spring; 
No  swelling  twig  puts  forth  its  thickening  leaves; 
The  robins  only  mid  the  harvests  sing, 
Pecking  the  grain  that  scatters  from  the  sheaves; 
The  rain  falls  still,  —  the  fruit  all  ripened  drops, 
It  pierces  chestnut-burr  and  walnut-shell; 
The  furrowed  fields  disclose  the  yellow  crops; 
Each  bursting  pod  of  talents  used  can  tell; 
And  all  that  once  received  the  early  rain 
Declare  to  man  it  was  not  sent  in  vain. 


[131] 


A  LIFE  ON  THE  OCEAN  WAVE 

BY  EPES   SARGENT 

A  lite  on  the  ocean  wave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  deep, 
Where  the  scattered  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep ! 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  I  pine 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore: 
Oh,  give  me  the  flashing  brine, 

The  spray  and  the  tempest's  roar! 

Once  more  on  the  deck  I  stand 

Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft: 
Set  sail!  farewell  to  the  land! 

The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 
We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foam 

Like  an  ocean-bird  set  free,  — 
Like  the  ocean-bird,  our  home 

We'll  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown; 
But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew, 

We'll  say,  Let  the  storm  come  down! 
And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 

While  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 
A  home  on  the  rolling  sea! 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave ! 

[132] 


A  WINTER  WISH 

BY  ROBERT  HINCKLEY  MESSINGER 

Old  wine  to  drink! 
Ay,  give  the  slippery  juice 
That  drippeth  from  the  grape  thrown  loose 

Within  the  tun; 
Plucked  from  beneath  the  cliff 
Of  sunny-sided  Teneriffe, 
And  ripened  'neath  the  blink 
Of  India's  sun! 
Peat  whisky  hot, 
Tempered  with  well-boiled  water! 
These  make  the  long  night  shorter,  — 

Forgetting  not 
Good  stout  old  English  porter. 

Old  wood  to  burn! 
Ay,  bring  the  hillside  beech 
From  where  the  owlets  meet  and  screech, 

And  ravens  croak; 
The  crackling  pine,  and  cedar  sweet; 
Bring  too  a  clump  of  fragrant  peat, 
Dug  'neath  the  fern; 

The  knotted  oak, 

A  fagot  too,  perhap, 
Whose  bright  flame,  dancing,  winking, 
Shall  light  us  at  our  drinking; 

[  133  1 


While  the  oozing  sap 
Shall  make  sweet  music  to  our  thinking. 

Old  books  to  read! 
Ay,  bring  those  nodes  of  wit, 
The  brazen-clasped,  the  vellum- writ, 

Time-honored  tomes! 
The  same  my  sire  scanned  before, 
The  same  my  grandsire  thumbed  o'er, 
The  same  his  sire  from  college  bore, 
The  well-earned  meed 

Of  Oxford's  domes: 

Old  Homer  blind, 
Old  Horace,  rake  Anacreon,  by 
Old  Tully,  Plautus,  Terence  lie; 
Mort  Arthur's  olden  minstrelsie, 
Quaint  Burton,  quainter  Spenser,  ay! 
And  Gervase  Markham's  venerie  — 

Nor  leave  behind 
The  holye  Book  by  which  we  live  and  die, 

Old  friends  to  talk! 
Ay,  bring  those  chosen  few, 
The  wise,  the  courtly,  and  the  true, 

So  rarely  found; 
Him  for  my  wine,  him  for  my  stud, 
Him  for  my  easel,  distich,  bud 

In  mountain  walk! 
Bring  Walter  good, 
With  soulful  Fred,  and  learned  Will, 
And  thee,  my  alter  ego  (dearer  still 

h34] 


For  every  mood). 
These  add  a  bouquet  to  my  wine! 
These  add  a  sparkle  to  my  pine! 
If  these  I  tine, 
Can  books,  or  fire,  or  wine  be  good? 


[135] 


LIFE  IN  THE  AUTUMN  WOODS 

BY   PHILIP   PENDLETON   COOKE 

Summer  has  gone, 
And  fruitful  autumn  has  advanced  so  far 
That  there  is  warmth,  not  heat,  in  the  broad  sun, 
And  you  may  look,  with  naked  eye,  upon 

The  ardors  of  his  car; 
The  stealthy  frosts,  whom  his  spent  looks  embolden, 

Are  making  the  green  leaves  golden. 

What  a  brave  splendor 
Is  in  the  October  air!     How  rich,  and  clear, 
And  bracing,  and  all-joyous!   we  must  render 
Love  to  the  spring-time,  with  its  sproutings  tender. 

As  to  a  child  quite  dear; 
But  autumn  is  a  thing  of  perfect  glory, 

A  manhood  not  yet  hoary. 

I  love  the  woods, 
In  this  good  season  of  the  liberal  year; 
I  love  to  seek  their  leafy  solitudes, 
And  give  myself  to  melancholy  moods, 

With  no  intruder  near, 
And  find  strange  lessons,  as  I  sit  and  ponder, 

In  every  natural  wonder. 

[136] 


But  not  alone, 
As  Shakespeare's  melancholy  courtier  loved  Ardennes, 
Love  I  the  browning  forest;  and  I  own 
I  would  not  oft  have  mused,  as  he,  but  flown 

To  hunt  with  Amiens  — 
And  little  thought,  as  up  the  bold  deer  bounded, 

Of  the  sad  creature  wounded. 

What  passionate 
And  keen  delight  is  in  the  proud  swift  chase! 
Go  out  what  time  the  lark  at  heaven's  red  gate 
Soars  joyously  singing  —  quite  infuriate 

With  the  high  pride  of  his  place; 
What  time  the  unrisen  sun  arrays  the  morning 

In  its  first  bright  adorning. 

Hark !   the   quick  horn  — 
As  sweet  to  hear  as  any  clarion  — 
Piercing  with  silver  call  the  ear  of  morn; 
And  mark  the  steeds,  stout  Curtal  and  Topthorne 

And  Greysteil  and  the  Don  — 
Each  one  of  them  his  fiery  mood  displaying 

With  pawing  and  with  neighing. 

Urge  your  swift  horse, 
After  the  crying  hounds  in  this  fresh  hour, 
Vanquish  high  hills  —  stem  perilous  streams  perforce, 
On  the  free  plain  give  free  wings  to  your  course, 

And  you  will  know  the  power 
Of  the  brave  chase  —  and  how  of  griefs  the  sorest 

A  cure  is  in  the  forest. 

[137-1 


Or  stalk  the  deer; 
The  same  red  lip  of  dawn  has  kissed  the  hills, 
The  gladdest  sounds  are  crowding  on  your  ear, 
There  is  a  life  in  all  the  atmosphere :  — 

Your  very  nature  fills 
With  the  fresh  hour,  as  up  the  hills  aspiring 

You  climb  with  limbs  untiring. 

A  strong  joy  fills 
(A  joy  beyond  the  tongue's  expressive  power) 
My  heart  in  autumn  weather  —  fills  and  thrills  I 
And  I  would  rather  stalk  the  breezy  hills, 

Descending  to  my  bower 
Nightly,  by  the  sweet  spirit  of  Peace  attended, 

Than  pine  where  life  is  splendid. 


[138] 


SHE  CAME  AND  WENT 

BY  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 

Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 

So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirred;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven, 
The  blue  dome's  measureless  content, 

So  my  soul  held  that  moment's  heaven;  - 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  spring  heaps 
The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 

So  clove  her  May  my#  wintry  sleeps;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze, 

Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent; 

The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

Oh,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 
And  life's  last  oil  is  nearly  spent, 

One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim, 
Only  to  think  she  came  and  went. 

[i39] 


ODE    RECITED    AT    THE    HARVARD 
COMMEMORATION 

JULY    21,    1865 
BY  JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 


Weak-winged  is  song, 
Nor  aims  at  that  clear-ethered  height 
Whither  the  brave  deed  climbs  for  light: 

We  seem  to  do  them  wrong, 
Bringing  our  robin's-leaf  to  deck  their  hearse 
Who  in  warm  life-blood  wrote  their  nobler  verse, 
Our  trivial  song  to  honor  those  who  come 
With  ears  attuned  to  strenuous  trump  and  drum, 
And  shaped  in  squadron-strophes  their  desire, 
Live  battle-odes  whose  lines  were  steel  and  fire: 

Yet  sometimes  feathered  words  are  strong, 
A  gracious  memory  to  buoy  up  and  save 
From  Lethe's  dreamless  ooze,  the  common  grave 

Of  the  unventurous  throng. 

II 

To-day  our  Reverend  Mother  welcomes  back 
Her  wisest  Scholars,  those  who  understood 
The  deeper  teaching  of  her  mystic  tome, 
And  offered  their  fresh  lives  to  make  it  good: 
No  lore  of  Greece  or  Rome, 

[  140] 


No  science  peddling  with  the  names  of  things, 
Or  reading  stars  to  find  inglorious  fates, 

Can  lift  our  life  with  wings 
Far  from  Death's  idle  gulf  that  for  the  many  waits 

And  lengthen  out  our  dates 
With  that  clear  fame  whose  memory  sings 
In  manly  hearts  to  come,  and  nerves  them  and  dilates: 
Nor  such  thy  teaching,  Mother  of  us  all! 

Not  such  the  trumpet-call 

Of  thy  diviner  mood, 

That  could  thy  sons  entice 
From  happy  homes  and  toils,  the  fruitful  nest 
Of  those  half-virtues  which  the  world  calls  best, 

Into  War's  tumult  rude; 

But  rather  far  that  stern  device 
The  sponsors  chose  that  round  thy  cradle  stood 

In  the  dim,  unventured  wood, 

The  Veritas  that  lurks  beneath 

The  letter's  unprolific  sheath, 
Life  of  whate'er  makes  life  worth  living, 
Seed-grain  of  high  emprise,  immortal  food, 
One  heavenly  thing  whereof  earth  hath  the  giving. 

Ill 

Many  loved  Truth,  and  lavished  life's  best  oil 

Amid  the  dust  of  books  to  find  her, 
Content  at  last,  for  guerdon  of  their  toil, 

With  the  cast  mantle  she  hath  left  behind  her. 
Many  in  sad  faith  sought  for  her, 
Many  with  crossed  hands  sighed  for  her; 
But  these,  our  brothers,  fought  for  her, 

[141] 


At  life's  dear  peril  wrought  for  her, 

So  loved  her  that  they  died  for  her, 

Tasting  the  raptured  fleetness 

Of  her  divine  completeness: 
Their  higher  instinct  knew 
Those  love  her  best  who  to  themselves  are  true, 
And  what  they  dare  to  dream  of,  dare  to  do; 

They  followed  her  and  found  her 

Where  all  may  hope  to  find, 
Not  in  the  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  mind, 
But  beautiful,  with  danger's  sweetness  round  her. 

Where  faith  made  whole  with  deed 

Breathes  its  awakening  breath 

Into  the  lifeless  creed, 

They  saw  her  plumed  and  mailed, 

With  sweet,  stern  face  unveiled, 
And  all-repaying  eyes,  look  proud  on  them  in  death, 

IV 

Our  slender  life  runs  rippling  by,  and  glides 
Into  the  silent  hollow  of  the  past; 

What  is  there  that  abides 
To  make  the  next  age  better  for  the  last? 

Is  earth  too  poor  to  give  us 
Something  to  five  for  here  that  shall  outlive  us? 
Some  more  substantial  boon 
Than  such  as  flows  and  ebbs  with  Fortune's  fickle 
moon? 
The  little  that  we  see 
From  doubt  is  never  free; 
The  little  that  we  do 
[142] 


Is  but  half -nobly  true; 
With  our  laborious  hiving 
What  men  call  treasure,  and  the  gods  call  dross, 

Life  seems  a  jest  of  Fate's  contriving, 

Only  secure  in  every  one's  conniving, 
A  long  account  of  nothings  paid  with  loss, 
Where  we  poor  puppets,  jerked  by  unseen  wires, 
After  our  little  hour  of  strut  and  rave, 
With  all  our  pasteboard  passions  and  desires, 
Loves,  hates,  ambitions,  and  immortal  fires, 
Are  tossed  pell-mell  together  in  the  grave. 
But  stay!    no  age  was  e'er  degenerate, 
Unless  men  held  it  at  too  cheap  a  rate, 
For  in  our  likeness  still  we  shape  our  fate. 
Ah,  there  is  something  here 

Unfathomed  by  the  cynic's  sneer, 

Something  that  gives  our  feeble  light 

A  high  immunity  from  Night, 

Something  that  leaps  life's  narrow  bars 
To  claim  its  birthright  with  the  hosts  of  heaven; 

A  seed  of  sunshine  that  can  leaven 
Our  earthly  dullness  with  the  beams  of  stars, 

And  glorify  our  clay 
With  light  from  fountains  elder  than  the  Day; 

A  conscience  more  divine  than  we, 

A  gladness  fed  with  secret  tears, 

A  vexing,  forward-reaching  sense 

Of  some  more  noble  permanence; 
A  light  across  the  sea, 
Which  haunts  the  soul  and  will  not  let  it  be, 
Still  beaconing  from  the  heights  of  undegenerate  years, 

[143] 


Whither  leads  the  path 
To  ampler  fates  that  leads? 
Not  down  through  flowery  meads, 
To  reap  an  aftermath 
Of  youth's  vainglorious  weeds, 
But  up  the  steep,  amid  the  wrath 
And  shock  of  deadly-hostile  creeds, 
Where  the  world's  best  hope  and  stay 
By  battle's  flashes  gropes  a  desperate  way, 
And  every  turf  the  fierce  foot  clings  to  bleeds. 
Peace  hath  her  not  ignoble  wreath, 
Ere  yet  the  sharp,  decisive  word 
Light  the  black  lips  of  cannon,  and  the  sword 

Dreams  in  its  easeful  sheath; 
But  some  day  the  live  coal  behind  the  thought, 
Whether  from  Baal's  stone  obscene, 
Or  from  the  shrine  serene 
Of  God's  pure  altar  brought, 
Bursts  up  in  flame;  the  war  of  tongue  and  pen 
Learns  with  what  deadly  purpose  it  was  fraught, 
And,  helpless  in  the  fiery  passion  caught, 
Shakes  all  the  pillared  state  with  shock  of  men: 
Some  day  the  soft  Ideal  that  we  wooed 
Confronts  us  fiercely,  foe-beset,  pursued, 
And  cries  reproachful:  "Was  it,  then,  my  praise, 
And  not  myself  was  loved?     Prove  now  thy  truth; 
I  claim  of  thee  the  promise  of  thy  youth; 
Give  me  thy  life,  or  cower  in  empty  phrase, 
The  victim  of  thy  genius,  not  its  mate!" 

[  144] 


Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 

So  bountiful  is  Fate; 

But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 

When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 

This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 

And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 

Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 
Who  stand  self-poised  on  manhood's  solid  earth, 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he  needs. 

VI 

Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief, 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 

With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief: 
Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 

Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 

And  cannot  make  a  man 

Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 

Repeating  us  by  rote : 
For  him  her  Old-World  molds  aside  she  threw, 
And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

[145] 


How  beautiful  to  see 
Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 

Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 

But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust; 

They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust. 
His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 
Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 
A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapor's  blind; 
Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 
Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 

Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 

Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 

And  thwart  her  genial  will; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  talked  with  us  face  to  face 

I  praise  him  not;  it  were  too  late; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 

Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he : 

[i46] 


He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 
Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 
But  at  last  silence  comes; 
These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower  > 

Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame, 
The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 

VII 

Long  as  man's  hopa  insatiate  can  discern 

Or  only  guess  some  more  inspiring  goal 

Outside  of  Self,  enduring  as  the  pole, 

Along  whose  course  the  flying  axles  burn 

Of  spirits  bravely-pitched,  earth's  manlier  brood; 

Long  as  below  we  cannot  find 
The  meed  that  stills  the  inexorable  mind; 
So  long  this  faith  to  some  ideal  Good, 
Under  whatever  mortal  names  it  masks, 
Freedom,  Law,  Country,  this  ethereal  mood 
That  thanks  the  Fates  for  their  severer  tasks, 

Feeling  its  challenged  pulses  leap, 
While  others  skulk  in  subterfuges  cheap, 
And,  set  in  Danger's  van,  has  all  the  boon  it  asks, 
Shall  win  man's  praise  and  woman's  love, 
Shall  be  a  wisdom  that  we  set  above 
All  other  skills  and  gifts  to  culture  dear, 

[147] 


A  virtue  round  whose  forehead  we  inwreathe 
Laurels  that  with  a  living  passion  breathe 
When  other  crowns  grow,  while  we  twine  them,  sear. 
What  brings  us  thronging  these  high  rites  to  pay, 
And  seal  these  hours  the  noblest  of  our  year, 
Save  that  our  brothers  found  this  better  way? 

VIII 

We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  flows  with  Freedom's  honey  and  milk; 
But  'twas  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as  silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our  best;  — 
Ah  me!  not  all!  some  come  not  with  the  rest, 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any  here! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my  strain, 
But  the  sad  strings  complain, 
And  will  not  please  the  ear: 
I  sweep  them  for  a  paean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away,  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb  turf  wraps, 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to  gain: 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving; 
I  with  uncovered  head 
Salute  the  sacred  dead, 
Who  went,  and  who  return  not.  —  Say  not  so! 
'Tis  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repay, 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the  way; 
[148] 


Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the  grave; 
No  bar  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave; 

And  to  the  saner  mind 
We  rather  seem  the  dead  that  stayed  behind. 
Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow! 
For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence  lack: 
I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 
With  ever-youthful  brows  that  nobler  show; 
We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining  track; 

In  every  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration; 

They  come  transfigured  back, 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted  ways, 
Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays 
Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Expectation ! 

IX 

But  is  there  hope  to  save 
Even  this  ethereal  essence  from  the  grave? 
What  ever  'scaped  Oblivion's  subtle  wrong 
Save  a  few  clarion  names,  or  golden  threads  of  song? 

Before  my  musing  eye 
The  mighty  ones  of  old  sweep  by, 
Disvoiced  now  and  insubstantial  things, 
As  noisy  once  as  we;  poor  ghosts  of  kings, 
Shadows  of  empire  wholly  gone  to  dust, 
And  many  races,  nameless  long  ago, 
To  darkness  driven  by  that  imperious  gust 
Of  ever-rushing  Time  that  here  doth  blow: 

[  149] 


O  visionary  world,  condition  strange, 

Where  naught  abiding  is  but  only  Change, 

Where  the   deep-bolted   stars   themselves  still   shift 

and  range! 
Shall  we  to  more  continuance  make  pretense? 
Renown  builds  tombs;  a  life-estate  is  Wit; 

And,  bit  by  bit, 
The  cunning  years  steal  all  from  us  but  woe; 
Leaves  are  we,  whose  decays  no  harvest  sow. 

But,  when  we  vanish  hence, 
Shall  they  He  forceless  in  the  dark  below,   ■ 
Save  to  make  green  their  little  length  of  sods, 
Or  deepen  pansies  for  a  year  or  two, 
Who  now  to  us  are  shining-sweet  as  gods? 
Was  dying  all  they  had  the  skill  to  do? 
That  were  not  fruitless:  but  the  Soul  resents 
Such  short-lived  service,  as  if  blind  events 
Ruled  without  her,  or  earth  could  so  endure; 
She  claims  a  more  divine  investiture 
Of  longer  tenure  than  Fame's  airy  rents; 
Whate'er  she  touches  doth  her  nature  share; 
Her  inspiration  haunts  the  ennobled  air, 

Gives  eyes  to  mountains  blind, 
Ears  to  the  deaf  earth,  voices  to  the  wind, 
And  her  clear  trump  sings  succor  everywhere 
By  lonely  bivouacs  to  the  wakeful  mind; 
For  soul  inherits  all  that  soul  could  dare: 

Yea,  Manhood  hath  a  wider  span 
And  larger  privilege  of  life  than  man. 
The  single  deed,  the  private  sacrifice, 
So  radiant  now  through  proudly -hidden  tears, 

[150] 


Is  covered  up  erelong  from  mortal  eyes 
With  thoughtless  drift  of  the  deciduous  years; 
But  that  high  privilege  that  makes  all  men  peers, 
That  leap  of  heart  whereby  a  people  rise 

Up  to  a  noble  anger's  height, 
And,  flamed  on  by  the  Fates,  not  shrink,  but  grow 

more  bright, 
That  swift  validity  in  noble  veins, 
Of  choosing  danger  and  disdaining  shame, 

Of  being  set  on  flame 
By  the  pure  fire  that  flies  all  contact  base 
But  wraps  its  chosen  with  angelic  might, 

These  are  imperishable  gains, 
Sure  as  the  sun,  medicinal  as  light, 
These  hold  great  futures  in  their  lusty  reins 
And  certify  to  earth  a  new  imperial  race. 


Who  now  shall  sneer? 
Who  dare  again  to  say  we  trace 
Our  lives  to  a  plebeian  race? 
Roundhead  and  Cavalier! 
Dumb  are  those  names  erewhile  in  battle  loud; 
Dream-footed  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 

They  flit  across  the  ear : 
That  is  best  blood  that  hath  most  iron  in  't 
To  edge  resolve  with,  pouring  without  stint 
For  what  makes  manhood  dear. 
Tell  us  not  of  Plantagenets, 
Hapsburgs,  and  Guelfs,  whose  thin  bloods  crawl 
Down  from  some  victor  in  a  border-brawl! 

[151] 


How  poor  their  outworn  coronets, 
Matched  with  one  leaf  of  that  plain  civic  wreath 
Our  brave  for  honor's  blazon  shall  bequeath, 
Through  whose  desert  a  rescued  Nation  sets 
Her  heel  on  treason,  and  the  trumpet  hears 
Shout  victory,  tingling  Europe's  sullen  ears 
With  vain  resentments  and  more  vain  regrets! 

XI 

Not  in  anger,  not  in  pride, 

Pure  from  passion's  mixture  rude 

Ever  to  base  earth  allied, 

But  with  far-heard  gratitude, 

Still  with  heart  and  voice  renewed, 
To  heroes  living  and  dear  martyrs  dead, 
The  strain  should  close  that  consecrates  our  brave. 
Lift  the  heart  and  lift  the  head! 

Lofty  be  its  mood  and  grave, 

Not  without  a  martial  ring, 

Not  without  a  prouder  tread 

And  a  peal  of  exultation : 

Little  right  has  he  to  sing 

Through  whose  heart  in  such  an  hour 

Beats  no  march  of  conscious  power, 

Sweeps  no  tumult  of  elation! 

'Tis  no  Man  we  celebrate, 

By  his  country's  victories  great, 
A  hero  half,  and  half  the  whim  of  Fate, 

But  the  pith  and  marrow  of  a  Nation 

Drawing  force  from  all  her  men, 

Highest,  humblest,  weakest,  all, 

[152] 


. 


For  her  time  of  need,  and  then 

Pulsing  it  again  through  them, 
Till  the  basest  can  no  longer  cower, 
Feeling  his  soul  spring  up  divinely  tall, 
Touched  but  in  passing  by  her  mantle-hem. 
Come  back,  then,  noble  pride,  for  'tis  her  dower! 

How  could  poet  ever  tower, 

If  his  passions,  hopes,  and  fears, 

If  his  triumphs  and  his  tears, 

Kept  not  measure  with  his  people? 
Boom,  cannon,  boom  to  all  the  winds  and  waves! 
Clash  out,  glad  bells,  from  every  rocking  steeple ! 
Banners,  a-dance  with  triumph,  bend  your  staves! 

And  from  every  mountain-peak 
Let  beacon-fire  to  answering  beacon  speak, 
Katahdin  tell  Monadnock,  Whiteface  he, 
And  so  leap  on  in  light  from  sea  to  sea, 

Till  the  glad  news  be  sent 

Across  a  kindling  continent, 
Making  earth  feel  more  firm  and  air  breathe  braver : 
"Be  proud!  for  she  is  saved,  and  all  have  helped  to 

save  her ! 
She  that  lifts  up  the  manhood  of  the  poor, 
She  of  the  open  soul  and  open  door, 
With  room  about  her  hearth  for  all  mankind! 
The  fire  is  dreadful  in  her  eyes  no  more; 
From  her  bold  front  the  helm  she  doth  unbind, 
Sends  all  her  handmaid  armies  back  to  spin, 
And  bids  her  navies,  that  so  lately  hurled 
Their  crashing  battle,  hold  their  thunders  in, 
Swimming  like  birds  of  calm  along  the  unharmful  shore. 

[153] 


No  challenge  sends  she  to  the  elder  world, 
That  looked  askance  and  hated;  a  light  scorn 
Plays  o'er  her  mouth,  as  round  her  mighty  knees 
She  calls  her  children  back,  and  waits  the  morn 
Of  nobler  day,  enthroned  between  her  subject  seas." 

XII 

Bow  down,  dear  Land,  for  thou  hast  found  release! 

Thy  God,  in  these  distempered  days, 
Hath  taught  thee  the  sure  wisdom  of  His  ways, 
And  through  thine  enemies  hath  wrought  thy  peace! 

Bow  down  in  prayer  and  praise! 
No  poorest  in  thy  borders  but  may  now 
Lift  to  the  juster  skies  a  man's  enfranchised  brow. 
O  Beautiful!  my  Country!  ours  once  more! 
Smoothing  thy  gold  of  war-dishevelled  hair 
O'er  such  sweet  brows  as  never  other  wore, 

And  letting  thy  set  lips, 

Freed  from  wrath's  pale  eclipse, 
The  rosy  edges  of  their  smile  lay  bare, 
What  words  divine  of  lover  or  of  poet 
Could  tell  our  love  and  make  thee  know  it, 
Among  the  Nations  bright  beyond  compare? 

What  were  our  lives  without  thee? 

What  all  our  lives  to  save  thee? 

We  reck  not  what  we  gave  thee; 

We  will  not  dare  to  doubt  thee, 
But  ask  whatever  else,  and  we  will  dare! 


[iS4  J 


IN  THE  TWILIGHT 

BY  JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL 

Men  say  the  sullen  instrument, 
That,  from  the  Master's  bow, 
With  pangs  of  joy  or  woe, 
Feels  music's  soul  through  every  fiber  sent. 

Whispers  the  ravished  strings 
More  than  he  knew  or  meant; 
Old  summers  in  its  memory  glow; 
The  secrets  of  the  wind  it  sings; 
It  hears  the  April-loosened  springs; 
And  mixes  with  its  mood 
All  it  dreamed  when  it  stood 
In  the  murmurous  pine-wood 
Long  ago! 

The  magical  moonlight  then 

Steeped  every  bough  and  cone; 
The  roar  of  the  brook  in  the  glen 

Came  dim  from  the  distance  blown; 
The  wind  through  its  glooms  sang  low, 
And  it  swayed  to  and  fro 
With  delight  as  it  stood 
In  the  wonderful  wood, 
Long  ago ! 

O  my  life,  have  we  not  had  seasons 
That  only  said,  Live  and  rejoice? 
That  asked  not  for  causes  and  reasons, 

[155] 


But  made  us  all  feeling  and  voice? 
When  we  went  with  the  winds  in  their  blowing 

When  Nature  and  we  were  peers, 
And  we  seemed  to  share  in  the  flowing 
Of  the  inexhaustible  years? 
Have  we  not  from  the  earth  drawn  juices 
Too  fine  for  earth's  sordid  uses? 
Have  I  heard,  have  I  seen 

All  I  feel,  all  I  know? 
Doth  my  heart  overween? 
Or  could  it  have  been 
Long  ago? 

Sometimes  a  breath  floats  by  me, 
An  odor  from  Dreamland  sent, 
That  makes  the  ghost  seem  nigh  me 
Of  a  splendor  that  came  and  went, 
Of  a  life  lived  somewhere,  I  know  not 

In  what  diviner  sphere, 
Of  memories  that  stay  not  and  go  not,  . 
Like  music  heard  once  by  an  ear 
That  cannot  forget  or  reclaim  it, 
A  something  so  shy,  it  would  shame  it 

To  make  it  a  show, 
A  something  too  vague,  could  I  name  it, 

For  others  to  know, 
As  if  I  had  lived  it  or  dreamed  it, 
As  if  I  had  acted  or  schemed  it, 
Long  ago! 

And  yet,  could  I  live  it  over, 
This  life  that  stirs  in  my  brain, 

[156] 


Could  I  be  both  maiden  and  lover, 
Moon  and  tide,  bee  and  clover, 

As  I  seem  to  have  been,  once  again, 
Could  I  but  speak  it  and  show  it, 
This  pleasure  more  sharp  than  pain, 
That  baffles  and  lures  me  so, 
The'^orld  should  once  more  have  a  poet, 
Such  as  it  had 
In  the  ages  glad, 
Long  ago! 


[157] 


TO  THE  DANDELION 

BY   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 

Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 

Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride  uphold, 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'er  joyed  that  they 

An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 

May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 

Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 

Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 

Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease; 

'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 

To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 

To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 

The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks   a  warmer  clime; 
The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time: 
Not  in  mid- June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment 
In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 

[158] 


His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass, 

Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 

The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 

Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 

Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above, 

Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thee ; 

The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 

Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 

Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing, 

With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 

Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 

When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art! 
Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 

"ore  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 
>ince  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 

)i  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 

>id  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

[159] 


TWILIGHT  AT  SEA 

BY  AMELIA   B.   WELBY 

The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew  by, 

As  lightly  and  as  free, 
Ten  thousand  stars  were  in  the  sky, 

Ten  thousand  on  the  sea; 
For  every  wave,  with  dimpled  face, 

That  leaped  upon  the  air, 
Had  caught  a  star  in  its  embrace, 

And  held  it  trembling  there. 


fi6o] 


DIRGE 

For  one  who  jell  in  battle 

BY   THOMAS   WILLIAM  PARSONS 

Room  for  a  soldier!  lay  him  in  the  clover; 

He  loved  the  fields,  and  they  shall  be  his  cover; 

Make  his  mound  with  hers  who  called  him  once  her 
lover : 

Where  the  rain  may  rain  upon  it, 
Where  the  sun  may  shine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 
And  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it. 

Bear  him  to  no  dismal  tomb  under  city  churches; 
Take  him  to  the  fragrant  fields,  by  the  silver  birches, 
Where   the  whip-poor-will   shall  mourn,   where   the 
oriole  perches : 

Make  his  mound  with  sunshine  on  it, 

Where  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it, 

Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 

And  the  rain  will  rain  upon  it. 

Busy  as  the  bee  was  he,  and  his  rest  should  be  the 

clover; 
Gentle  as  the  lamb  was  he,  and  the  fern  should  be 

his  cover; 
Fern  and  rosemary  shall  grow  my  soldier's  pillow 

over: 

[161] 


Where  the  rain  may  rain  upon  it, 
Where  the  sun  may  shine  upon  it, 
Where  the  lamb  hath  lain  upon  it, 
And  the  bee  will  dine  upon  it. 

Sunshine  in  his  heart,  the  rain  would  come  full  often 
Out  of  those  tender  eyes  which  evermore  did  soften: 
He  never  could  look  cold  till  we  saw  him  in  his  coffin. 
Make  his  mound  with  sunshine  on  it, 
Plant  the  lordly  pine  upon  it, 
Where  the  moon  may  stream  upon  it, 
And  memory  shall  dream  upon  it. 

"Captain  or  Colonel,"  —  whatever  invocation 
Suit  our  hymn  the  best,  no  matter  for  thy  station, — 
On  thy  grave  the  rain  shall  fall  from  the  eyes  of  a 
mighty  nation ! 

Long  as  the  sun  doth  shine  upon  it 
Shall  glow  the  goodly  pine  upon  it, 
Long  as  the  stars  do  gleam  upon  it 
Shall  memory  come  to  dream  upon  it. 


[162] 


A  CHRISTMAS   CAROL1 

BY  JOSIAH  GILBERT  HOLLAND 

There's  a  song  in  the  air! 

There's  a  star  in  the  sky! 

There's  a  mother's  deep  prayer 

And  a  baby's  low  cry ! 
And  the  star  rains  its  fire  while  the  Beautiful  sing, 
For  the  manger  of  Bethlehem  cradles  a  king. 

There's  a  tumult  of  joy 

O'er  the  wonderful  birth, 

For  the  virgin's  sweet  boy 

Is  the  Lord  of  the  earth. 
Ay!  the  star  rains  its  fire  and  the  Beautiful  sing, 
For  the  manger  of  Bethlehem  cradles  a  king. 

In  the  light  of  that  star 

Lie  the  ages  impearled; 

And  that  song  from  afar 

Has  swept  over  the  world. 
Every  hearth  is  aflame,  and  the  Beautiful  sing 
In  the  homes  of  the  nations  that  Jesus  is  King. 

We  rejoice  in  the  light, 

And  we  echo  the  song 

That  comes  down  through  the  night 

•  From  the  heavenly  throng. 
Ay !  we  shout  to  the  lovely  evangel  they  bring, 
And  we  greet  in  his  cradle  our  Saviour  and  King. 

^rom   the   "Marble    Prophecy."     Copyright,  1872,   by    Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 

[163] 


BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

BY   JULIA  WARD   HOWE 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the 

Lord: 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of 

wrath  are  stored; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible 

swift  sword: 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred 

circling  camps; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews 

and  damps; 
I  can  read  His  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and 

flaring  lamps: 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of 

steel: 
"As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my 

grace  shall  deal; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with 

His  heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never 
call  retreat; 

[i64 1 


He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judg- 
ment-seat : 

Oh!  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!  be  jubilant, 
my  feet! 

Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the 

sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and 

me: 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men 

free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 


165] 


THE  VIOLET 

BY  WILLIAM  WETMORE   STORY 

O  faint,  delicious,  spring-time  violet! 

Thine  odor,  like  a  key, 
Turns  noiselessly  in  memory's  wards  to  let 

A  thought  of  sorrow  free. 


The  breath  of  distant  fields  upon  my  brow 

Blows  through  that  open  door 
The  sound  of  wind-borne  bells,  more  sweet  and  low, 

And  sadder  than  of  yore. 

It  comes  afar,  from  that  beloved  place, 

And  that  beloved  hour, 
When  life  hung  ripening  in  love's  golden  grace, 

Like  grapes  above  a  bower. 

A  spring  goes  singing  through  its  reedy  grass; 

The  lark  sings  o'er  my  head, 
Drowned  in  the  sky  —  0,  pass,  ye  visions,  pass! 

I  would  that  I  were  dead !  — 

Why  hast  thou  opened  that  forbidden  door, 

From  which  I  ever  flee? 
0  vanished  joy!    O  love,  that  art  no  more, 

Let  my  vexed  spirit  be! 
[166] 


O  violet!  thy  odor  through  my  brain 

Hath  searched,  and  stung  to  grief 

This  sunny  day,  as  if  a  curse  did  stain 
Thy  velvet  leaf. 


[i67j 


GIVE  ME  THE  SPLENDID   SILENT  SUN 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 


Give  me  the  splendid  silent  sun  with  all  his  beams 

full-dazzling, 
Give  me  juicy  autumnal  fruit  ripe  and  red  from  the 

orchard, 
Give  me  a  field  where  the  unmow'd  grass  grows, 
Give  me  an  arbor,  give  me  the  trelhs'd  grape, 
Give  me  fresh  corn  and  wheat,  give  me  serene-moving 

animals  teaching  content, 
Give  me  nights  perfectly  quiet  as  on  high  plateaus 

west  of  the  Mississippi,  and  I  looking  up  at  the 

stars, 
Give  me  odorous  at  sunrise  a  garden  of  beautiful 

flowers  where  I  can  walk  undisturb'd, 
Give  me  for  marriage  a  sweet-breath'd  woman  of 

whom  I  should  never  tire, 
Give  me  a  perfect  child,  give  me,  away  aside  from  the 

noise  of  the  world,  a  rural  domestic  life, 
Give  me   to  warble   spontaneous   songs   recluse   by 

myself,  for  my  own  ears  only, 
Give  me  solitude,  give  me  Nature,  give  me  again 
O  Nature  your  primal  sanities! 

These  demanding  to  have  them,  (tired  with  ceaseless 
excitement,  and  rack'd  by  the  war-strife,) 
[168I 


These  to  procure  incessantly  asking,  rising  in  cries 
from  my  heart, 

While  yet  incessantly  asking  still  I  adhere  to  my  city, 

Day  upon  day  and  year  upon  year,  0  city,  walking 
your  streets, 

Where  you  hold  me  enchain'd  a  certain  time  refusing 
to  give  me  up, 

Yet  giving  to  make  me  glutted,  enrich'd  of  soul,  you 
give  me  forever  faces; 

(0,  I  see  what  I  sought  to  escape,  confronting,  revers- 
ing my  cries, 

I  see  my  own  soul  trampling  down  what  it  ask'd  for.) 

II 

Keep  your  splendid  silent  sun, 

Keep  your  woods  0  Nature,  and  the  quiet  places  by 

the  woods, 
Keep  your  fields  of  clover  and  timothy,  and  your 

corn-fields  and  orchards, 
Keep   the   blossoming   buckwheat  fields   where   the 

Ninth-month  bees  hum; 
Give  me  faces  and  streets  —  give  me  these  phantoms 

incessant  and  endless  along  the  trottoirs ! 
Give  me  interminable  eyes  —  give  me  women  —  give 

me  comrades  and  lovers  by  the  thousand ! 
Let  me  see  new  ones  every  day  —  let  me  hold  new 

ones  by  the  hand  every  day ! 
Give  me  such  shows  —  give  me  the  streets  of  Man- 
hattan ! 
Give  me  Broadway,  with  the  soldiers  marching  — 

give  me  the  sound  of  the  trumpets  and  drums ! 

[i69] 


(The    soldiers    in   companies   or   regiments  —  some 

starting  away,  flush'd  and  reckless, 
Some,  their  time  up,  returning  with  thinn'd  ranks, 

young,   yet  very  old,  worn,  marching,   noticing 

nothing;) 
Give  me  the  shores  and  wharves  heavy-fringed  with 

black  ships  I 
0,  such  for  me!    0,  an  intense  life,  full  to  repletion 

and  varied! 
The  life  of  the  theater,  bar-room,  huge  hotel,  for  me! 
The  saloon  of  the  steamer!  the  crowded  excursion 

for  me!  the  torchlight  procession! 
The  dense  brigade  bound  for  the  war,  with  high-piled 

military  wagons  following; 
People,  endless,  streaming,  with  strong  voices,  pas- 
sions, pageants, 
Manhattan  streets  with  their  powerful  throbs,  with 

beating  drums  as  now, 
The  endless  and  noisy  chorus,  the  rustle  and  clank  of 

muskets,  (even  the  sight  of  the  wounded,) 
Manhattan    crowds,    with    their    turbulent    musical 

chorus! 
Manhattan  faces  and  eyes  forever  for  me. 


[  170  I 


TO  THE  MAN-OF-WAR-BIRD 

BY   WALT   WHITMAN 

Thou  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm, 

Waking  renew'd  on  thy  prodigious  pinions, 

(Burst  the  wild  storm?  above  it  thou  ascendedst, 

And  rested  on  the  sky,  thy  slave  that  cradled  thee,) 

Now  a  blue  point,  far,  far  in  heaven  floating, 

As  to  the  light  emerging  here  on  deck  I  watch  thee. 

(Myself  a  speck,  a  point  on  the  world's  floating  vast.) 

Far,  far  at  sea, 

After  the  night's  fierce  drifts  have  strewn  the  shore 

with  wrecks, 
With  re-appearing  day  as  now  so  happy  and  serene, 
The  rosy  and  elastic  dawn,  the  flashing  sun, 
The  limpid  spread  of  air  cerulean, 
Thou  also  re-appearest. 

Thou  born  to  match  the  gale,  (thou  art  all  wings,) 
To  cope  with  heaven  and  earth  and  sea  and  hurricane, 
Thou  ship  of  air  that  never  furl'st  thy  sails, 
Days,  even  weeks  un tired  and  onward,  through  spaces, 

realms  gyrating, 
At  dusk  that  look'st  on  Senegal,  at  morn  America, 
That  sport'st  amid  the  lightning-flash  and  thunder- 
cloud, 
In  them,  in  thy  experiences,  hadst  thou  my  soul, 
What  joys!  what  joys  were  thine! 

[171] 


0  CAPTAIN!    MY  CAPTAIN! 

BY   WALT   WHITMAN 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!    our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought 

is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exult- 
ing, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and 
daring; 
But  O  heart!  heart!  heart! 
0  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 
Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain,  my  Captain!  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 
Rise  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung  —  for  you  the 

bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths  —  for  you 

the  shores  a-crowding, 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 
turning; 
Here  Captain!  dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor 
will, 

[172] 


The  ship  is  anchor 'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object 
won; 
Exult  0  shores,  and  ring  O  bells! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


173] 


DAREST  THOU  NOW,   0   SOUL 

BY   WALT   WHITMAN 

Darest  thou  now,  O  soul, 
Walk  out  with  me  toward  the  unknown  region, 
Where  neither  ground  is  for  the  feet  nor  any  path 
follow? 

No  map  there,  nor  guide, 
Nor  voice  sounding,  nor  touch  of  human  hand, 
Nor  face  with  blooming  flesh,  nor  lips,  nor  eyes,  are 
in  that  land. 

I  know  it  not,  0  soul, 
Nor  dost  thou,  all  is  a  blank  before  us, — 
All  waits  undream 'd  of  in  that  region,  that  inaccessible 
land. 

Till  when  the  ties  loosened, 
All  but  the  ties  eternal,  Time  and  Space, 
Nor  darkness,   gravitation,   sense,   nor   any  bounds 
bounding  us. 

Then  we  burst  forth,  we  float, 
In  Time  and  Space,  O  soul,  prepared  for  them, 
Equal,  equipt  at  last  (0  joy!  0  fruit  of  all!)  them  to 
fulfil,  O  soul. 

[i74] 


PIONEERS!    0  PIONEERS! 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 

Come  my  tan-faced  children, 
Follow  well  in  order,  get  your  weapons  ready, 
Have  you  your  pistols?  have  you  your  sharp-edged 
axes? 

Pioneers!     0  pioneers! 

For  we  cannot  tarry  here, 
We  must  march  my  darlings,  we  must  bear  the  brunt 

of  danger, 
We  the  youthful  sinewy  races,  all  the  rest  on  us  depend, 

Pioneers!    0  pioneers! 

0  you  youths,  Western  youths, 
So  impatient,  full  of  action,  full  of  manly  pride  and 

friendship, 
Plain  I  see  you  Western  youths,  see  you  tramping 
with  the  foremost, 
Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

Have  the  elder  races  halted? 
Do  they  droop  and  end  their  lesson,  wearied  over 

there  beyond  the  seas? 
We  take  up  the  task  eternal,  and  the  burden  and  the 
lesson, 
Pioneers!    0  pioneers! 

[175] 


All  the  past  we  leave  behind, 
We  debouch  upon  a  newer  mightier  world,  varied 

world, 
Fresh  and  strong  the  world  we  seize,  world  of  labor 
and  the  march, 
Pioneers!     0  pioneers! 

We  detachments  steady  throwing, 
Down  the  edges,  through  the  passes,  up  the  mountains 

steep, 

Conquering,  holding,  daring,  venturing  as  we  go  the 
unknown  ways, 
Pioneers!     0  pioneers! 

We  primeval  forests  felling, 
We  the  rivers  stemming,  vexing  we  and  piercing  deep 

the  mines  within, 
We  the  surface  broad  surveying,  we  the  virgin  soil 
upheaving, 
Pioneers!     0  pioneers! 

Colorado  men  are  we, 
From  the  peaks  gigantic,  from  the  great  sierras  and 

the  high  plateaus, 
From  the  mine  and  from  the  gully,  from  the  hunting 
trail  we  come, 
Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 


From  Nebraska,  from  Arkansas, 
Central  inland  race  are  we,  from  Missouri,  with  the 
continental  blood  intervein'd, 

[i76] 


All  the  hands  of  comrades  clasping,  all  the  Southern, 
all  the  Northern, 
Pioneers!     0  pioneers! 

O  resistless  restless  race ! 
O  beloved  race  in  all !     O  my  breast  aches  with  tender 

love  for  all, 
O  I  mourn  and  yet  exult,  I  am  rapt  with  love  for 
all, 
Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

Raise  the  mighty  mother  mistress, 
Waving  high  the  delicate  mistress,  over  all  the  starry 

mistress,  (bend  your  heads  all,) 
Raise  the  fang'd  and  warlike  mistress,  stern,  impassive, 
weapon'd  mistress, 
Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

See  my  children,  resolute  children, 
By  those  swarms  upon  our  rear  we  must  never  yield 

or  falter, 
Ages  back  in  ghostly  millions  frowning  there  behind 
us  urging, 
Pioneers L    0  pioneers! 

On  and  on  the  compact  ranks, 
With  accessions  ever  waiting,  with  the  places  of  the 

dead  quickly  fill'd, 
Through  the  battle,  through  defeat,  moving  yet  and 
never  stopping, 
Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

[  177] 


Oh,  to  die  advancing  on! 
Are  there  some  of  us  to  droop  and  die?  has  the  houi 

come? 
Then  upon  the  march  we  fittest  die,  soon  and  sure 
the  gap  is  fill'd, 
Pioneers!    0  pioneers! 

All  the  pulses  of  the  world, 
Falling  in  they  beat  for  us,  with  the  Western  move- 
ment beat, 
Holding  single  or  together,   steady  moving  to  the 
front,  all  for  us, 
Pioneers!    0  pioneers! 

Life's  involv'd  and  varied  pageants, 
All  the  forms  and  shows,  all  the  workmen  at  their 

work, 
All  the  seamen  and  the  landsmen,  all  the  masters 
with  their  slaves, 
Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

All  the  hapless  silent  lovers, 
All  the  prisoners  in  the  prisons,  all  the  righteous  and 

the  wicked. 
All  the  joyous,  all  the  sorrowing,  all  the  living,  all  the 
dying, 
Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

I  too  with  my  soul  and  body, 
We,  a  curious  trio,  picking,  wandering  on  our  way, 

[178] 


Through  these  shores  amid  the  shadows,  with  the 
apparitions  pressing, 
Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

Lo,  the  darting  bowling  orb ! 
Lo,  the  brother  orbs  around,  all  the  clustering  suns 

and  planets, 
All  the  dazzling  days,   all  the  mystic  nights  with 
dreams, 
Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

These  are  of  us,  they  are  with  us, 
All  for  primal  needed  work,  while  the  followers  there 

in  embryo  wait  behind, 
We  today's  procession  heading,  we    the    route  for 
travel  clearing, 
Pioneers!    O  pioneers! 

O  you  daughters. of  the  West! 
0  you  young  and  elder  daughters!     0  you  mothers 

and  you  wives ! 
Never  must  you  be  divided,  in  our  ranks  you  move 
united,     , 
Pioneers!    0  pioneers! 

Minstrels  latent  on  the  prairies! 
(Shrouded  bards  of  other  lands,  you  may  rest,  you 

have  done  your  work,) 
Soon  I  hear  you  coming  warbling,  soon  you  rise  and 
tramp  amid  us, 
Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

[i79] 


Not  for  delectations  sweet, 
Not  the  cushion  and  the  slipper,  not  the  peaceful  and 

the  studious, 
Not  the  riches  safe  and  palling,  not  for  us  the  tame 
enjoyment, 
Pioneers!     O  pioneers! 

Do  the  feasters  gluttonous  feast? 
Do  the  corpulent  sleepers  sleep?  have  they  lock'd 

and  bolted  doors? 
Still  be  ours  the  diet  hard,  and  the  blanket  on  the 
ground, 
Pioneers!     0  pioneers! 


Has  the  night  descended? 
Was  the  road  of  late  so  toilsome?    did  we  stop  dis- 
couraged nodding  on  our  way? 
Yet  a  passing  hour  I  yield  you  in  your  tracks  to  pause 
oblivious, 
Pioneers!     0  pioneers! 

Till  with  sound  of  trumpet, 
Far,  far  off  the  daybreak  call  —  hark!  how  loud  and 

clear  I  hear  it  wind, 
Swift!   to  the  head  of  the  army!  —  swift!   spring  to 
your  places, 
Pioneers!     0  pioneers! 


[180] 


I  HEAR  AMERICA  SINGING 

BY   WALT  WHITMAN 

I  hear  America  singing,  the  varied  carols  I  hear, 
Those  of  mechanics,  each  one  singing  his  as  it  should 

be  blithe  and  strong, 
The  carpenter  singing  his  as  he  measures  his  plank 

or  beam, 
The  mason  singing  his  as  he  makes  ready  for  work, 

or  leaves  off  work, 
The  boatman  singing  what  belongs  to  him  in  his 

boat,   the  deckhand  singing  on  the  steamboat 

deck, 
The  shoemaker  singing  as  he  sits  on  his  bench,  the 

hatter  singing  as  he  stands, 
The  wood-cutter's  song,  the  ploughboy's  on  his  way 

in  the  morning,  or  at  noon  intermission   or  at 

sundown, 
The  delicious  singing  of  the  mother,  or  of  the  young 

wife  at  work, -or  of  the  girl  sewing  or  washing, 
Each  singing  what  belongs  to  him  or  her  and  to  none 

else, 
The  day  what  belongs  to  the  day  —  at  night  the  party 

of  young  fellows,  robust,  friendly, 
Singing  with  open  mouths   their   strong  melodious 

songs. 


I181J 


IN  PRAISE  OF  DEATH 

BY   WALT   WHITMAN 

Praised  be  the  fathomless  universe 

For  life  and  joy  and  for  love,  sweet  love! 

But  praise !  praise !  praise  ! 
For  the  cool  enfolding  arms 

Of  sweet  and  delicate  death. 


[182] 


YOUTH,  DAY,  OLD  AGE,  AND  NIGHT 

BY  WALT   WHITMAN 

Youth,  large,  lusty,  loving  —  youth  full  of  grace, 

force,  fascination, 
Do  you  know  that  Old  Age  may  come  after  you  with 

equal  grace,  force,  fascination? 

Day  full-blown  and  splendid  —  day  of  the  immense 

sun,  action,  ambition,  laughter, 
The  Night  follows  close  with  millions  of  suns,  and 

sleep  and  restoring  darkness. 


1 18.3  ] 


PRAYER  OF   COLUMBUS 

BY   WALT   WHITMAN 

A  batter'd,  wrecked  old  man, 

Thrown  on  this  savage  shore,  far,  far  from  home, 

Pent  by  the  sea  and  dark  rebellious  brows,  twelve 

dreary  months, 
Sore,  stiff  with  many  toils,  sicken'd  and  nigh  to  death, 
I  take  my  way  along  the  island's  edge, 
Venting  a  heavy  heart. 

I  am  too  full  of  woe ! 

Haply  I  may  not  live  another  day; 

I  cannot  rest,  0  God,  I  cannot  eat  or  drink  or  sleep, 

Till  I  put  forth  myself,  my  prayer,  once  more  to  Thee, 

Breathe,  bathe  myself  once  more  in  Thee,  commune 

with  Thee, 
Report  myself  once  more  to  Thee. 

Thou  knowest  my  years  entire,  my  life, 

My  long  and  crowded  life  of  active  work,  not  adora- 
tion merely; 

Thou  knowest  the  prayers  and  vigils  of  my  youth, 

Thou  knowest  my  manhood's  solemn  and  visionary 
meditations, 

Thou  knowest  how  before  I  commenced  I  devoted  all 
to  come  to  Thee, 

Thou  knowest  I  have  in  age  ratified  all  those  vows  and 
strictly  kept  them, 

[184] 


Thou  knowest  I  have  not  once  lost  nor  faith  nor 

ecstasy  in  Thee, 
In  shackles,  prison'd,  in  disgrace,  repining  not, 
Accepting  all  from  Thee,  as  duly  come  from  Thee. 

All  my  emprises  have  been  nll'd  with  Thee, 

My   speculations,   plans,   begun   and   carried  on  in 

thoughts  of  Thee, 
Sailing  the  deep  or  journeying  the  land  for  Thee; 
Intentions,  purports,  aspirations  mine,  leaving  results 

to  Thee. 

Oh,  I  am  sure  they  really  came  from  Thee, 

The  urge,  the  ardor,  the  unconquerable  will, 

The  potent,  felt,  interior  command,   stronger  than 

words, 
A  message  from  the  heavens  whispering  to  me  even 

in  sleep, 
These  sped  me  on. 

By  me  and  these  the  work  so  far  accomplish'd, 

By  me  earth's  elder  cloyM  and  stifled  lands  uncloy'd, 

unloos'd, 
By  me  the  hemispheres  rounded  and  tied,  the  unknown 

to  the  known. 

The  end  I  know  not,  it  is  all  in  Thee, 

Or  small  or  great  I  know  not  —  haply  what  broad 

fields,  what  lands, 
Haply  the  brutish  measureless  human  under  growth  I 

know, 

[185] 


Transplanted  there  may  rise  to  stature,  knowledge 

worthy  Thee, 
Haply  the  swords  I  know  may  there  indeed  be  turn'd 

to  reaping-tools, 
Haply  the  lifeless  cross  I  know,  Europe's  dead  cross, 

may  bud  and  blossom  there. 

One  effort  more,  my  altar  this  bleak  sand; 

That  Thou,  0  God,  my  life  has  lighted, 

With  ray  of  light,  steady,  ineffable,  vouchsafed  of 

Thee, 
Light  rare  untellable,  lighting  the  very  light, 
Beyond  all  signs,  descriptions,  languages; 
For  that,  O  God,  be  it  my  latest  word,  here  on  my 

knees, 
Old,  poor,  and  paralyzed,  I  thank  Thee. 

My  terminus  near, 

The  clouds  already  closing  in  upon  me, 
The  voyage  balk'd,  the  course  disputed,  lost, 
I  yield  my  ships  to  Thee. 

My  hands,  my  limbs  grow  nerveless, 

My  brain  feels  rack'd,  bewilder'd, 

Let  the  old  timbers  part,  I  will  not  part, 

I  will  cling  fast  to  Thee,  O  God,  though  the  waves 

buffet  me, 
Thee,  Thee  at  least  I  know. 

Is  it  the  prophet's  thought  I  speak,  or  am  I  raving? 
What  do  I  know  of  life?  what  of  myself? 
[186] 


I  know  not  even  my  own  work  past  or  present, 
Dim  ever-shifting  guesses  of  it  spread  before  me, 
Of  newer  better  worlds,  their  mighty  parturition, 
Mocking,  perplexing  me. 

And  these  things  I  see  suddenly,  what  mean  they? 
As  if  some  miracle,  some  hand  divine  unseal'd  my 

eyes, 
Shadowy  vast  shapes  smile  through  the  air  and  sky? 
And  on  the  distant  waves  sail  countless  ships, 
And  anthems  in  new  tongues  I  hear  saluting  me. 


[187] 


WEAVE  IN,  MY  HARDY  LIFE 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 

Weave  in,  weave  in,  my  hardy  life, 
Weave  yet  a  soldier  strong  and  full  for  great  cam- 
paigns to  come, 
Weave  in  red  blood,  weave  sinews  in  like  ropes,  the 

senses,  sight  weave  in, 
Weave  lasting  sure,  weave  day  and  night  the  weft, 

the  warp,  incessant  weave,  tire  not, 
(We  know  not  what  the  use  O  life,  nor  know  the  aim, 

the  end,  nor  really  aught  we  know, 
But  know  the  work,  the  need  goes  on  and  shall  go  on, 

the  death-envelop 'd  march  of  peace  as  well  as 

war  goes  on), 
For  great  campaigns  of  peace  the  same  the  wiry 

threads  to  weave, 
We  know  not  why  or  what,  yet  weave,  forever  weave. 


[188 


QUICKSAND  YEARS 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 

Quicksand  years  that  whirl  me  I  know  not  whither, 

Your  schemes,  politics,  fail,  lines  give  way,  sub- 
stances mock  and  elude  me, 

Only  the  theme  I  sing,  the  great  and  strong-possess 'd 
soul,  eludes  not, 

One's-self  must  never  give  way  —  that  is  the  final 
substance  —  thaj:*  oat  T)f*  all  is  sure, 

Out  of  politics,  triumphs,  battles,  life,  what  at  last 
finally  remains? 

When  shows  break  up,  what  but  One's-Self  is  sure? 


189] 


OUT  OF  THE  ROLLING  OCEAN  THE  CROWD 

BY   WALT   WHITMAN 

Out  of  the  rolling  ocean  the  crowd  came  a  drop  gently 

to  me, 
Whispering  I  love  you,  before  long  I  die, 
I  have  travel' d  a  long  way  merely  to  look  on  you  to 

touch  you, 
For  I  could  not  die  till  I  once  look'd  on  you, 
For  I  fear'd  I  might  afterward  lose  you. 

Now  we  have  met,  we  have  look'd,  we  are  safe, 

Return  in  peace  to  the  ocean  my  love, 

I  too  am  part  of  that  ocean,  my  love,  we  are  not  so 
much  separated, 

Behold  the  great  rondure,  the  cohesion  of  all,  how 
perfect ! 

But  as  for  me,  for  you,  the  irresistible  sea  is  to  sepa- 
rate us,  ■ 

As  for  an  hour  carrying  us  diverse,  yet  cannot  carry 
us  diverse  forever; 

Be  not  impatient  —  a  little  space  —  know  you  I 
salute  the  air,  the  ocean,  and  the  land, 

Every  day  at  sundown  for  your  dear  sake  my  love. 


[190] 


O  MAGNET-SOUTH 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 

O  magnet-south!    O    glistening   perfumed    South! 

my  South! 
O  quick  mettle,  rich  blood,  impulse  and  love!  good 

and  evil!     0  all  dear  to  me! 

0  dear  to  me   my  birth- things  —  all  moving  things 

and  the  trees  where  I  was  born  —  the  grains, 
.  plants,  rivers, 
Dear  to  me  my  own  slow  sluggish  rivers  where  they 

flow,  distant,  over  flats  of  silvery  sands  or  through 

swamps, 
Dear  to  me  the  Roanoke,  the  Savannah,  the  Alta- 

mahaw,  the  Pedee,  the  Tombigbee,  the  Santee, 

the  Coosa,  and  the  Sabine, 
Oh,  pensive,  far  away  wandering,  I  return  with  my 

•  soul  to  haunt  their  banks  again, 
Again  in  Florida  I  float  on  transparent  lakes,  I  float 

on  the  Okeechobee,  I  cross  the  hummock-land, 

or  through  pleasant  openings  or  dense  forests 

1  see  the  parrots  in  the  woods,  I  see  the  papaw-tree 

and  the  blossoming  titi; 
Again,   sailing  in  my  coaster  on  deck,  I  coast  off 

Georgia,  I  coast  up  the  Carolinas, 
I  see  where  the  live-oak  is  growing,  I  see  where  the 

yellow-pine,  the  scented  bay-tree,  the  lemon  and 

orange,  the  cypress,  the  graceful  palmetto, 

•   [  191 1 


I  pass  rude  sea-headlands  and  enter  Pamlico  sound 
through  an  inlet,  and  dart  my  vision  inland; 

O  the  cotton  plant!  the  growing  fields  of  rice,  sugar, 
hemp! 

The  cactus  guarded  with  thorns,  the  laurel- tree  with 
large  white  flowers, 

The  range  afar,  the  richness  and  barrenness,  the  old 
woods  charged  with  mistletoe  and  trailing  moss, 

The  piney  odor  and  the  gloom,  the  awful  natural 
stillness,  (here  in  these  dense  swamps  the  free- 
booter carries  his  gun,  and  the  fugitive  has  his 
conceal' d  hut;) 

O  the  strange  fascination  of  these  half-known  half- 
impassable  swamps,  infested  by  reptiles,  resound- 
ing with  the  bellow  of  the  alligator,  the  sad  noises 
of  the  night-owl  and  the  wild-cat,  and  the  whirr 
of  the  rattlesnake, 

The  mocking-bird,  the  American  mimic,  singing  all 
the  forenoon,  singing  through  the  moon-lit  night, 

The  humming-bird,  the  wild  turkey,  the  raccoon,  the 
opossum; 

A  Kentucky  corn-field,  the  tall,  graceful,  long-leav'd 
corn,  slender,  flapping,  bright  green,  with  tassels, 
with  beautiful  ears  each  well-sheath'd  in  its 
husk; 

O  my  heart!  O  tender  and  fierce  pangs,  I  can  stand 
them  not,  I  will  depart; 

O  to  be  a  Virginian  where  I  grew  up!  O  to  be  a 
Carolinian ! 

O  longings  irrepressible!     0  I  will  go  back   to  old 
Tennessee  and  never  wander  more. 
[192] 


ind 


WARBLE  FOR  LILAC-TIME 

BY  WALT   WHITMAN 

Warble  me  now  for  joy  of  lilac-time,  (returning  in 
reminiscence,) 

Sort  me  0  tongue  and  lips  for  Nature's  sake,  souve- 
nirs of  earliest  summer, 

Gather  the  welcome  signs,  (as  children  with  pebbles 
or  stringing  shells,) 

Put  in  April  and  May,  the  hylas  croaking  in  the 
ponds,  the  elastic  air, 

Bees,  butterflies,  the  sparrow  with  its  simple  notes, 

Blue-bird  and  darting  swallow,  nor  forget  the  high- 
hole  flashing  his  golden  wings, 

The  tranquil  sunny  haze,  the  clinging  smoke,  the 
vapor, 

Shimmer  of  waters  with  fish  in  them,  the  cerulean 
above, 

All  that  is  jocund  and  sparkling,  the  brooks  running, 

The  maple  woods,  the  crisp  February  days,  and  the 
sugar-making, 

The  robin  where  he  hops,  bright-eyed,  brown-breasted, 

With  musical  clear  call  at  sunrise  and  again  at  sun- 
set, 

Or  flitting  among  the  trees  of  the  apple-orchard,  build- 
ing the  nest  of  his  mate, 

The  melted  snow  of  March,  the  willow  sending  forth 
its  yellow-green  sprouts, 

[i93] 


For  spring-time  is  here!  the  summer  is  here!  and 
what  is  this  in  it  and  from  it? 

Thou,  soul,  unloosen'd  —  the  restlessness  after  I 
know  not  what; 

Come,  let  us  lag  here  no  longer,  let  us  be  up  and  away! 

O  if  one  could  but  fly  like  a  bird ! 

O  to  escape,  to  sail  forth  as  in  a  ship! 

To  glide  with  thee,  0  soul,  o'er  all,  in  all,  as  a  ship 
o'er  the  waters; 

Gathering  these  hints,  the  preludes,  the  blue  sky,  the 
grass,  the  morning  drops  of  dew, 

The  lilac-scent,  the  bushes  with  dark-green  heart- 
shaped  leaves, 

Wood- violets,  the  little  delicate  pale  blossoms  called 
innocence , 

Samples  and  sorts  not  for  themselves  alone,  but  for 
their  atmosphere, 

To  grace  the  bush  I  love  —  to  sing  with  the  birds, 

A  warble  for  joy  of  lilac-time,  returning  in  reminis- 
cence. 


[i94] 


MIRACLES 

BY   WALT   WHITMAN 

Why,  who  makes  much  of  a  miracle? 

As  to  me  I  know  of  nothing  else  but  miracles, 

Whether  I  walk  the  streets  of  Manhattan, 

Or  dart  my  sight  over  the  roofs  of  houses  toward  the 

sky, 
Or  wade  with  naked  feet  along  the  beach  just  in  the 

edge  of  the  water, 
Or  stand  under  trees  in  the  woods, 
Or  talk  by  day  with  any  one  I  love,  or  sleep  in  the 

bed  at  night  with  any  one  I  love, 
Or  sit  at  table  at  dinner  with  the  rest, 
Or  look  at  strangers  opposite  me  riding  in  the  car, 
Or  watch  honey-bees  busy  around  the  hive  of  a  sum- 
mer forenoon, 
Or  animals  feed  in  the  fields, 

Or  birds,  or  the  wonder'fulness  of  insects  in  the  air, 
Or  the  wonderfulness  of  the  sundown,  or  of  stars 

shining  so  quiet  and  bright, 
Or  the  exquisite  delicate  thin  curve  of  the  new  moon 

in  spring; 
These  with  the  rest,  one  and  all,  are  to  me  miracles, 
The  whole  referring,  yet  each  distinct  and  in  its  place. 

To  me  every  hour  of  the  light  and  dark  is  a  miracle, 
Every  cubic  inch  of  space  is  a  miracle, 

[195] 


Every  square  yard  of  the  surface  of  the  earth  is 

spread  with  the  same, 
Every  foot  of  the  interior  swarms  with  the  same. 

To  me  the  sea  is  a  continual  miracle, 

The  fishes  that  swim  —  the  rocks  —  the  motion  of 

the  waves  —  the  ships  with  men  in  them, 
What  stranger  miracles  are  there? 


[i96] 


JOY,   SHIPMATE,  JOY! 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 

Joy,  shipmate,  joy! 
(Pleas'd  to  my  soul  at  death  I  cry,) 
Our  life  is  closed,  our  life  begins, 
The  long,  long  anchorage  we  leave, 
The  ship  is  clear  at  last,  she  leaps! 
She  swiftly  courses  from  the  shore, 
Joy,  shipmate,  joy  I 


[i97] 


AS  TOILSOME  I  WANDER'D  VIRGINIA'S 
WOODS 

BY  WALT  WHITMAN 

As  toilsome  I  wander 'd  Virginia's  woods, 

To  the  music  of  rustling  leaves  kick'd  by  my  feet, 

(for  'twas  autumn,) 
I  mark'd  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  the  grave  of  a  soldier; 
Mortally  wounded  he  and  buried  on  the  retreat,  (easily 

all  could  I  understand,) 
The  halt  of   a  midday  hour,  when  up!  no  time  to 

lose  —  yet  this  sign  left, 
On  a  tablet  scrawl'd  and  nail'd  on  the  tree  by  the 

grave, 
Bold,  cautious,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 

Long,  long  I  muse,  then  on  my  way  go  wandering, 
Many  a  changeful  season  to  follow,  and  many  a  scene 

of  life, 
Yet  at  times  through  changeful  season  and  scene, 

abrupt,  alone,  or  in  the  crowded  street, 
Comes  before  me  the  unknown  soldier's  grave,  comes 

the  inscription  rude  in  Virginia's  woods, 
Bold,  cautious ,  true,  and  my  loving  comrade. 


[198] 


A  SPINSTER'S  STINT 

BY  ALICE   CARY 

Six  skeins  and  three,  six  skeins  and  three! 
Good  mother,  so  you  stinted  me, 
And  here  they  be,  —  ay,  six  and  three ! 

Stop,  busy  wheel!  stop,  noisy  wheel! 
Long  shadows  down  my  chamber  steal, 
And  warn  me  to  make  haste  and  reel. 

'T   is  done,  —  the  spinning  work  complete, 

0  heart  of  mine,  what  makes  you  beat 
So  fast  and  sweet,  so  fast  and  sweet? 

1  must  have  wheat  and  pinks,  to  stick 
My  hat  from  brim  to  ribbon,  thick,  ■ — 
Slow  hands  of  mine,  be  quick,  be  quick! 

One,  two,  three  stairs  along  the  skies 
Begin  to  wink  their  golden  eyes,  — 
I'll  leave  my  thread  all  knots  and  ties. 

O  moon,  so  red!     O  moon,  so  red! 
Sweetheart  of  night,  go  straight  to  bed; 
Love's  light  will  answer  in  your  stead. 

A-tiptoe,  beckoning  me,  he  stands,  — 
Stop  trembling,  little  foolish  hands, 
And  stop  the  bands,  and  stop  the  bands! 

[  199] 


THE  BLACKBIRD 

BY  ALICE   CARY 

"  I  could  not  think  so  plain  a  bird 
Could  sing  so  fine  a  song." 

One  on  another  against  the  wall 

Pile  up  the  books,  —  I  am  done  with  them  all! 

I  shall  be  wise,  if  I  ever  am  wise, 

Out  of  my  own  ears,  and  of  my  own  eyes. 

One  day  of  the  woods  and  their  balmy  light,  — ■ 
One  hour  on  the  top  of  a  breezy  hill, 

There  in  the  sassafras  all  out  of  sight 
The  blackbird  is  splitting  his  slender  bill 

For  the  ease  of  his  heart  I 

Do  you  think  if  he  said 
I  will  sing  like  this  bird  with  the  mud-colored  back 
And  the  two  little  spots  of  gold  over  his  eyes, 
Or  like  to  this  shy  little  creature  that  flies 
So  low  to  the  ground,  with  the  amethyst  rings 
About  her  small  throat,  —  all  alive  when  she  sings 
With  a  glitter  of  shivering  green,  —  for  the  rest, 
Gray  shading  to  gray,  with  the  sheen  of  her  breast 
Half  rose  and  half  fawn,  — 

Or  like  this  one  so  proud, 
That  flutters  so  restless,  and  cries  out  so  loud, 
[  200  ] 


With  stiff  horny  beak  and  a  topknotted  head, 
And  a  lining  of  scarlet  laid  under  his  wings,  — 
Do  you  think,  if  he  said,  "I'm  ashamed  to  be  black! 
That  he  could  have  shaken  the  sassafras  tree 
As  he  does  with  the  song  he  was  born  to?    Not  he! 


[201] 


NEARER  HOME 

BY  PHCEBE   CARY 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er; 

I  am  nearer  home  to-day 

Than  I  ever  have  been  before; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house, 
Where  the  many  mansions  be; 

Nearer  the  great  white  throne, 
Nearer  the  crystal  sea; 

Nearer  the  bound  of  life, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down; 
Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 

Nearer  gaining  the  crown! 

But  lying  darkly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 
Is  the  silent,  unknown  stream, 

That  leads  at  last  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 
Come  to  the  dread  abysm: 

Closer  Death  to  my  lips 
Presses  the  awful  chrism. 
[  202  ] 


O,  if  my  mortal  feet 

Have  almost  gained  the  brink; 
If  it  be  I  am  nearer  home 

Even  to-day  than  I  think; 

Father,  perfect  my  trust! 

Let  my  spirit  feel,  in  death, 
That  her  feet  are  firmly  set 

On  the  Rock  of  a  living  faith! 


[203] 


HAPPY  WOMEN 

BY  PHCEBE   CARY 

Impatient  women,  as  you  wait 
In  cheerful  homes  to-night,  to  hear 

The  sound  of  steps  that,  soon  or  late, 
Shall  come  as  music  to  your  ear; 

Forget  yourselves  a  little  while, 
And  think  in  pity  of  the  pain 

Of  women  who  will  never  smile 
To  hear  a  coming  step  again. 

With  babes  that  in  their  cradle  sleep, 
Or  cling  to  you  in  perfect  trust; 

Think  of  the  mothers  left  to  weep, 
Their  babies  lying  in  the  dust. 

And  when  the  step  you  wait  for  comes, 
And  all  your  world  is  full  of  light, 

0  women,  safe  in  happy  homes, 
Pray  for  all  lonesome  souls  to-night. 


204] 


JOY 

BY  ANNE  WHITNEY 

Gray  strength  of  years ! 

Whereon  so  many  a  bark  is  wrecked; 

And  even  success 

Falls  blank  and  passionless; 

This  morn  has  decked 

Your  front  with  trailing  loveliness 

And  branching  lights; 

Inlets  of  summer  from  celestial  heights. 

Dimpling  with  light,  beneath  the  long  arcades, 

The  shadows  smile  in  sleep; 

And  all  those  forces  manifold  that  keep 

Such  infantine,  calm  play, 

Before  the  awful  hand 

That  makes  and  breaks, 

Sing  and  are  jubilant  to-day. 

Sing  on,  all  up  and  down  the  shining  land! 

My  heart  your  meaning  takes. 

As  evening's  star  on  star, 
Through  the  blue  portals  of  the  air, 
What  countless  creatures  throng! 
And  beautiful  they  are  — 
With  morning  in  their  eyes  and  on  their  hair; 
And  on  their  lips  an  antique  speech  and  song. 
[205] 


One  shadow  only  waits 

Aloof,  poised  on  ascending  wing, 

And  lifts  no  voice;  but  in  her  throat, 

I  ween  there  is  a  sweeter  note 

Than  all  these  glorious  warblers  bring. 

I  hear  her  chant  an  inward  strain; 

"Thou  sett'st  me  above  Time's  annoy; 

I  found  delight  and  it  was  pain; 

Thou  gavest  pain  and  it  is  joy. 

Token  of  unaccomplished  growth, 

Stern  pledge  of  immortality, — 

Through  all  the  earth's  perplexed  domain, 

Just  God,  I  would  that  there  should  be 

No  living  thing  that  should  not  suffer  pain." 

Thus  in  a  ravishment 

Of  inward  sight,  her  song  wells  up, 

A  passionate  content. 

Scatter  the  road, 

The  beaten  highway  of  the  world,  my  heart, 

With  rose  and  asphodel, 

And  all  thou  draw'st  from  music's  throbbing 

well; 
Behold  how  rich  thou  art! 
Thou  drink'st  of  every  spring  of  God; 
Broad  heaven  but  lightly  freights  thine  eye, 
And  thy  familiar  pulse  is  rife 
With  tumult  of  the  river  of  life, 
That  makes  the  circuit  of  the  youngest  sky. 
What  thrill  that  spirits  feel, 
Transport  of  love,  or  ecstasy 
F206I 


Of  still,  creative  force, 

That  life  shall  not  at  last  to  thee  reveal? 

Oh,  make  no  barren  haste  — 

Thou  liv'st  from  day  to  day  with  God  so  near, 

And  well  may'st  brook 

Into  those  phantom-eyes  to  look 

That  freeze  in  these  half-lights  our  atmosphere : 

Seeing  that  thou  art  based 

On  the  immortal  Joy  —  whose  spreading  bloom 

Has  root  of  substance  so  divine, 

That  the  perennial  heavens  which  by  it  shine 

And  spring's  sure  birth  live  only  to  express 

Its  strength  and  everlastingness. 


[207] 


ALL'S  TO   GAIN 


BY  ANNE   WHITNEY 


All's  to  gain, 
All  is  to  come  between  us  twain! 
Oh,  never  can  serve 
Fruition  and  conquered  reserve 
To  feed  the  soul  with  a  bliss, 

So  momently  waking, 
So  troubled,  but  deep  as  death, 
With  a  surface  doubt  and  an  under  faith 
Over  it  breaking,  — 
As  this  which  we  feel  —  as  this! 


[208] 


HYMN  TO  THE  SEA 

BY  ANNE  WHITNEY 

Along  yon  soft  tumultuousness,  the  Dawn 
Reaches  a  glowing  hand,  and  the  mute  world 
Thrills  back  to  life.    This  lustrous  blossom,  curled 
In  on  its  dreaming  heart,  feels  the  forlorn 
Old  shadow  lift  and  guardedly  discloses 
Its  wayside  cheer;  and  endless  waves  away 
Bide  the  slow  triumph  of  the  Light, 
Rejoicing  in  the  infinite 
And  quenchless  possibility  of  Day; 
Day, —  that  at  least  shall  win  far  more  than  darkness 
loses. 

Over  those  morning  waves,  or  when  the  bare 
Stars  glow,  or  Morn  her  tireless  lover  nears, 
The  eternal  Beauty  that  these  countless  years 
Makes  earthly  musings  so  divinely  fair, 
Broods  listening  to  the  prophecy  thou  chantest.  — 
The  subtle  breath  of  mortal  sympathies 
Is  she,  wooing  us  unto  right 
In  unsuspected  ways;  a  light 
From  inmost  heaven  tempered  to  dreaming  eyes. 
A  sweet  foreshadow  of  the  joy  for  which  thou  pantest. 

Roll  in  from  far  thy  deep  broad-skirted  thunder, 
Whereon  the  wild  winds  fawn!     Thy  voice  b> 
day;  — 

[  209] 


But  Night  adopts  and  trances  it  away 
Into  its  clear,  sad  universe  of  wonder. 
Oh,  weary  of  life's  shallow,  lavish  sound, 
Enrich  me  beyond  hunger  with  that  tone ! 
Tell  in  what  deep,  gray  solitude 
It  may  be  born,  what  caverns  rude 
Still  haunt  it;  and  if  the  infinite  Alone 
Touch  it  himself  with  calm  and  utterance  so  pro- 
found. 

Hark'ning  through  all  the  music  of  her  leaves 
And  inland  murmurs,  o'er  the  seaward  steep, 
The  stately  Summer    leans,    while    dim    Winds 
sweep 
Her  shining  tresses  back,  —  and  half  she  grieves 
That  thou  disdain'st  with   thy  hoar   wreaths    to 

twine 
Her  fleeting  gifts.  —  Yet  hast  thou  tender  fancies, — 
Broodings  of  love  when  young  winds  cease, 
And  silence  deepens  into  peace; 
And  lead'st  with  Day  and  Night  immortal  dances, 
Crowned  with  fresh  marriage-blooms  and  lotus-cups 
divine. 

Up  the  broad,  gray,  gleaming  beach  I  saw 
Last  night  that  phantom-light  of  thy  desire, 
Orb  large  and  slow  in  the  east,  dropping  pale 
fire 
Along  thy  deep'ning  tumult,  so  to  draw 
Old  love-dreams  out :  —  for  countless  leagues  she 
had  come 

[210] 


O'er  kindred  foam;  her  footfalls  echoing  yet 
In  the  deep  breast  of  Arab  —  through 
Caspian  and  the  Euxine,  and  the  blue 
Of  that  famed  gulf  in  earth's  broad  girdle  set, 
With  endless  voice  of   waves  calling  to  shores  long 
dumb. 

With  all  her  loveliness  earth  leaves  me  sad; 
And  sadder  for  her  loveliness.     My  hills 
Are  sacred  chalices  which  eve  o'erfills 
With  vintage  for  young  gods;   and  ever  glad 
In  the  deep  clasp  of  vernal  boughs,  the  air 
At  nightfall  swoons;  —  but  haun tings  unexplained 
Steal  in;    earth  looks  half  wild  and  lone, 
And  from  her  eyes  I  veil  my  own, 
And  lay  my  heart  to  hers  —  the  unattained, 
Youth's  aching  world  of    incompleteness  throbbing 
there. 

But  thou,   shout  on  through  heaven's  encircling 
spheres, 
Still  promising  with  that  great  voice  of  power 
A  joy  to  every  heart,  a  day,  an  hour 
To  come,  outweighing  all  these  silent  years! 
Afar  thou  veil'st  thy  kingliness  in  mist, 
And  stretchest  in  the  heaven's  most  deep  embrace, 
Like  the  great  Future,  waste  and  gray, 
Dissolving  day  to  yesterday,  — 
But  what  fair  shores  thou  lapp'st  in  azure  peace!  — 
What   isles   of   joyous   palms   with    tropic   starlight 
kissed! 


I  am  borne  outward  by  this  fragrant  breeze, 

That  seems  to  press  its  warm  lips  to  the  sand, 
And  then  away,  —  beyond  the  singing  land, 
To  that  hoar  silence  of  the  lone  mid-seas, 
Where  thou,  in  unrelated  strength,  a  bare 
Vast  heart,  throbbest  beneath  the  eternal  eye :  — 
Life  soars  like  an  enfranchised  flame : 
The  needy  doubt,  the  hope,  that  came 
Before  the  laggard  dawn  to  wake  me,  fly, 
And  dim  eternity  flows  in  like  silent  air. 

Do  tempests  swing  thee,  or  deep,  choral  nights 
Chant  unto  murmurous  slumber,  yield  me  still 
The  calm  of  hushed  abysses !  —  human  ill 
Patience  transfigures  on  her  visioned  heights. 
Thou    dost    not    rive    the    blood-drenched    deck 

apart, 
Nor  whelm  the  slaver's  freight  of  woes,  but  soft 
On  patient,  swelling  breast  upborne, 
Waftest  the  dismal  burthen  on, 
As  trusting  in  the  love  that  waits  aloft 
And  the  slow  germ  of  good  in  man's  unquiet  heart. 

Ah,  meagre  happiness,  and  hopes  that  reach 
To  some  dull  dream,  a  vapor  of  the  sense, 
And  on  the  plain  of  the  old  Permanence 
Are  but  as  hasty  flashes  in  the  beach 
Of  idle  footprints!  Oh,  make  more  divine, 
Glad    Sea,    our    thoughts  —  nor    may    we    dully 
grope 
'Mid  slavish  fears,  while  thou  dost  girth 
[  212  ] 


The  continents  and  isles  with  mirth, 
And  music  of  unconquerable  hope, 
That  Joy  and  Beauty  shall  be  life's  as    they  are 
thine ! 

Oh,  old  consoler,  that  dost  tenderly 

In  thy  great  longing  merge  my  day-born  pain, 
Uplift  me  to  the  stature  of  your  strain, 
And  bid  all  lower  aspiration  flee ! 
The  nobler  earth  is  built  of  stubborn  good  — 
Who  brings  his  little  vanity,  his  grave 
Appeal  to  men's  applause  or  wonder, 
Warn  him  away  with  thy  hoarse  thunder, 
Flash  o'er  the  graven  sands  a  liberal  wave, 
And  let  us  know  no  more  name,  memory,  or  blood! 

And  call  the  regal  shadows,  'mid  the  roar 

Of  charging  waves,  the  tumult,  and  the  smoke, — 
That  fine  old  Grecian  in  his  threadbare  cloak; 
The  banner  pastor  by  blue  Zurich,  o'er 
Whose  vine-clad  summits  Alps  looked  not  in  vain; 
England's  blind  seer;    Toussaint,  the  kingly  heart, 
Wearing  his  thrice-earned  martyr  crown; 
And  all  who  silently  let  down 
The  rugged  slopes  whereon  we  toss  apart 
Some  herald-beam  of  the  All-Fair,  some  love-bought 
pain. 

Yet  milder  beams  wooing  the  folded  sight, 

Shed  warmth  far  down  in  many  a  sinless  nook: 
Thank  God,  there  are  no  eyes  in  which  we  look 

[213] 


But  some  heart's  love  doth  lend  them  beauteous 

light! 
Dreams    that    prefigure    hopes,    and   hopes    that 

take 
Fresh  courage  from  all  life,  —  from  starlight  bold 
Sung  softly  in  by  whippoorwills, 
And  sunset's  broad'ning  sails  o'er  hills 
Afar;    and  from  the  earth  that  grows  not  old,  — 
Float  lightly  o'er  our  heads  whether   we   sleep   or 
wake. 

Alas!  to  her  high  place  thro'  sea-deep  tears, 
Earth  wins  her  long,  slow,  agonizing  way! 
The  base,  triumphant  Despot  of  a  day 
Is  weary  Anarch  of  a  thousand  years, 
And  yet  this  many  a  spring  the  boughs  are  sheen 
With  the  almost  forgotten  bloom !     Call,  Sea, 
Unto  all  faithful  souls.      Doubt  not, 
Aspire  to  lead  earth's  struggling  thought 
Still  up,  bring  what  from  full  hearts  gushes  free, 
He  who  doth  blend  and  shape  the  whole  finds  nothing 
mean. 

When  morning,  loosing  from  its  crimson  drifts, 
Some  panting  skylark  overtakes,  most  tender 
Of  such  weak  rivalship,  and  prone  to  render 
Homage  unto  great-heartedness,  it  lifts 
The  breaking  strain,  and  all  along  its  lines 
Of  thrilling  light,  its  currents  of  pure  air 
And  rosy  mists,  winds  it  at  will, 
Unites  and  separates,  and  still 
[214] 


Wreathes  it  and  builds  anew  beyond  despair, 
Till  light  is  song,   song,   light  —  thro'   all  heaven's 
steadfast  signs. 

Oh,  know  how  all  things  change!     Night's  violet 
star 
Shone  red  erewhile;  and  thou,  Sea,  wear'st  away 
The  glorious  realm  of  a  forgotten  day, 
But  lay'st  the  pillars  of  a  fairer  far 
Deep  in  thy  caverned  bed;    for  all  that  ever 
Gathered  about  it  men's  delight  or  love, 
Or  aught  that  simply  blooms  or  strives 
To  make  more  beautiful  our  lives, 
In  each  new  fabric  of  the  world,  is  wove 
Afresh,  and  changes  like  the  light,  but  passes  never. 


[215] 


THE  WINDY  NIGHT 

BY  THOMAS   BUCHANAN  READ 

Alow  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 
How  the  midnight  tempests  howl! 
With  a  dreary  voice,  like  the  dismal  tune 
Of  wolves  that  bay  at  the  desert  moon;  — 

Or  whistle  and  shriek 

Through  limbs  that  creak, 

"Tu-who!   tu-whit!" 

They  cry  and  flit, 
" Tu-whit!   tu-who!"  like  the  solemn  owl. 

Alow  and  aloof, 
Over  the  roof, 
Sweep  the  moaning  winds  amain, 
And  wildly  dash 
The  elm  and  ash, 
Clattering  on  the  window-sash, 
With  a  clatter  and  patter, 
Like  hail  and  rain 
That  well-nigh  shatter 
The  dusky  pane! 


Alow  and  aloof, 
Over  the  roof, 
How  the  tempests  swell  and  roar! 

r  .216.I 


Though  no  foot  is  astir, 
Though  the  cat  and  the  cur 
Lie  dozing  along  the  kitchen  floor, 

There  are  feet  of  air 

On  every  stair! 

Through  every  hall  — 

Through  each  gusty  door, 
There's  a  jostle  and  bustle, 
With  a  silken  rustle, 
Like  the  meeting  of  guests  at  a  festival! 

Alow  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 
How  the  stormy  tempests  swell! 

And  make  the  vane 

On  the  spire  complain  — 
They  heave  at  the  steeple  with  might  and  main, 

And  burst  and  sweep 
Into  the  belfry,  on  the  bell! 
They  smite  it  so  hard,  and  they  smite  it  so  well, 

That  the  sexton  tosses  his  arms  in  sleep, 
And  dreams  he  is  ringing  a  funeral  knell! 


[217] 


THE  VIRGINIANS   OF  THE  VALLEY 

BY  FRANCIS  ORRERY  TICKNOR 

The  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race 

That,  since  the  days  of  old, 
Have  kept  the  lamp  of  chivalry 

Alight  in  hearts  of  gold; 
The  kindliest  of  the  kindly  band 

That,  rarely  hating  ease, 
Yet  rode  with  Spotswood  round  the  land, 

And  Raleigh  round  the  seas; 

Who  climbed  the  blue  Virginian  hills 

Against  embattled  foes, 
And  planted  there,  in  valleys  fair, 

The  lily  and  the  rose; 
Whose  fragrance  lives  in  many  lands, 

Whose  beauty  stars  the  earth, 
And  lights  the  hearths  of  happy  homes 

With  loveliness  and  worth. 

We  thought  they  slept !  —  the  sons  who  kept 

The  names  of  noble  sires, 
And  slumbered  while  the  darkness  crept 

Around  their  vigil  fires; 
But  aye  the  "  Golden  Horseshoe  "  knights 

Their  old  Dominion  keep, 
Whose  foes  have  found  enchanted  ground, 

But  not  a  knight  asleep. 

[218] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  YOUTH1 

BY  RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain: 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better, 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign: 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished, 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain : 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 

But  it  never  comes  again. 

^rom  "Songs  of  Summer"  (1856).    "Copyright,  1880,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


[219] 


SONGS  UNSUNG1 

BY  RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD 

Let  no  poet,  great  or  small, 

Say  that  he  will  sing  a  song; 
For  song  cometh,  if  at  all, 

Not  because  we  woo  it  long, 
But  because  it  suits  its  will, 
Tired  at  last  of  being  still. 

Every  song  that  has  been  sung 

Was  before  it  took  a  voice; 
Waiting  since  the  world  was  young 

For  the  poet  of  its  choice. 
Oh,  if  any  waiting  be, 
May  they  come  to-day  to  me! 

I  am  ready  to  repeat 

Whatsoever  they  impart; 
Sorrows  sent  by  them  are  sweet  — 

They  know  how  to  heal  the  heart : 
Aye,  and  in  the  lightest  strain 
Something  serious  doth  remain. 

What  are  my  white  hairs,  forsooth, 
And  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow? 

I  have  still  the  soul  of  youth  — 
Try  me,  merry  Muses,  now. 

1  From  "Later  Poems."     Copyright,  1880,  by  Charles  Scribner'a 
Sons. 

[  220  ] 


I  can  still  with  numbers  fleet 
Fill  the  world  with  dancing  feet. 

No,  I  am  no  longer  young; 

Old  am  I  this  many  a  year; 
But  my  songs  will  yet  be  sung, 

Though  I  shall  not  live  to  hear. 
Oh,  my  son,  that  is  to  be, 
Sing  my  songs,  and  think  of  me" 


[221] 


THE   SKY  IS   THICK  UPON  THE   SEA1 

BY   RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD 

The  sky  is  thick  upon  the  sea, 

The  sea  is  sown  with  rain, 
And  in  the  passing  gusts  we  hear 

The  clanging  of  the  crane. 

The  cranes  are  flying  to  the  south, 

We  cut  the  northern  foam : 
The  dreary  land  they  leave  behind 

Must  be  our  future  home. 

Its  barren  shores  are  long  and  dark, 

And  gray  its  autumn  sky; 
But  better  these  than  this  gray  sea, 

If  but  to  land  —  and  die! 

^rom  "Songs  of  Summer"  (1856).     Copyright,  1880,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


[  222  ] 


WINE  AND  DEW1 

BY  RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD 

You  may  drink  to  your  leman  in  gold, 

In  a  great  golden  goblet  of  wine; 
She's  as  ripe  as  the  wine,  and  as  bold 
As  the  glare  of  the  gold: 

But  this  little  lady  of  mine, 

I  will  not  profane  her  in  wine. 
I  go  where  the  garden  so  still  is 

(The  moon  raining  through) , 
To  pluck  the  white  bowls  of  the  lilies, 

And  drink  her  in  dew  I 

1From  "Songs  of  Summer"  (1856).     Copyright,  1880,  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


[  223  ] 


TO  A  LATE-COMER1 

BY   JULIA   CAROLINE    (RIPLEY)    DORR 

Why  didst  thou  come  into  my  life  so  late? 
If  it  were  morning  I  could  welcome  thee 
With  glad  all-hails,  and  bid  each  hour  to  be 

The  willing  servitor  of  thine  estate. 

Lading  thy  brave  ships  with  Time's  richest  freight; 
If  it  were  noonday  I  might  hope  to  see 
On  some  fair  height  thy  banners  floating  free, 

And  hear  the  acclaiming  voices  call  thee  great! 

But  it  is  nightfall  and  the  stars  are  out; 

Far  in  the  west  the  crescent  moon  hangs  low, 
And  near  at  hand  the  lurking  shadows  wait ; 

Darkness  and  silence  gather  round  about, 
Lethe's  black  stream  is  near  its  overflow,  — 

Ah,  friend,  dear  friend,  why  didst  thou  come  so 
late? 

1From  "Beyond  the  Sunset."  Copyright,  1909,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


224] 


BEDOUIN  SONG 

BY  BAYARD   TAYLOR 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry: 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee, 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold! 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 
With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh. 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold! 
[225] 


My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold! 


[226] 


MY  OLD   KENTUCKY  HOME 

BY   STEPHEN   COLLINS   FOSTER 

The  sun  shines  bright  in  the  old  Kentucky  home; 

'Tis  summer,  the  darkeys  are  gay; 
The  corn-top's  ripe,  and  the  meadow's  in  the  bloom, 

While  the  birds  make  music  all  the  day. 
The  young  folks  roll  on  the  little  cabin  floor, 

All  merry,  all  happy  and  bright; 
By-'n-by  hard  times  comes  a-knocking  at  the  door:  — 

Then  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night ! 

Weep  no  more,  my  lady, 
0,  weep  no  more  to-day! 
We  will  sing  one  song  for  the  old  Kentucky  home, 
For  the  old  Kentucky  home,  far  away. 

They  hunt  no  more  for  the  possum  and  the  coon, 

On  the  meadow,  the  hill,  and  the  shore; 
They  sing  no  more  by  the  glimmer  of  the  moon, 

On  the  bench  by  the  old  cabin  door. 
The  day  goes  by  like  a  shadow  o'er  the  heart, 

With  sorrow,  where  all  was  delight; 
The  time  has  come  when  the  darkeys  have  to  part:  — 

Then  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night! 

The  head  must  bow,  and  the  back  will  have  to  bend, 
Wherever  the  darkey  may  go; 
[227] 


A  few  more  days,  and  the  trouble  all  will  end, 
In  the  field  where  the  sugar-canes  grow. 

A  few  more  days  for  to  tote  the  weary  load,  — 
No  matter,  't  will  never  be  light; 

A  few  more  days  till  we  totter  on  the  road :  — 
Then  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good  night! 

Weep  no  more,  my  lady, 
O,  weep  no  more  to-day! 
We  will  sing  one  song  for  the  old  Kentucky  home, 
For  the  old  Kentucky  home,  far  away. 


[228 


OLD   FOLKS  AT  HOME 

BY   STEPHEN   COLLINS   FOSTER 

Way  down  upon  de  Swanee  Ribber, 

Far,  far  away, 
Dere's  wha  my  heart  is  turning  ebber. 

Dere's  wha  de  old  folks  stay. 
All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation 

Sadly  I  roam, 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary, 

Eberywhere  I  roam; 
Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 

Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 

All  round  de  little,  farm  I  wandered 

When  I  was  young, 
Den  many  happy  days  I  squandered, 

Many  de  songs  I  sung. 
When  I  was  playing  wid  my  brudder 

Happy  was  I; 
Oh,  take  me  to  my  kind  old  mudder! 

Dere  let  me  live  and  die. 

One  little  hut  among  de  bushes, 
One  dat  I  love, 

[229] 


Still  sadly  to  my  memory  rushes, 

No  matter  where  I  rove. 
When  will  I  see  de  bees  a-humming 

All  round  de  comb? 
When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumming, 

Down  in  my  good  old  home? 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary, 

Eberywhere  I  roam; 
Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 

Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 


[230] 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE   GRAY 

BY  FRANCIS  MILES  FINCH 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 
,  The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 
Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

[  231  I 


So  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue, 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
.The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue, 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done, 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading 
No  braver  battle  was  won: 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment-day; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war  cry  sever, 

Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead! 

[  232  ] 


Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment-day; 

Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


[233] 


CHARLESTON 

BY  HENRY   TIMROD 

Calm  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 

The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds, 

The  city  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts,  stern  and  proud, 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep,  — 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 

Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 

No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scaur 

To  guard  the  holy  strand; 
But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war 

Above  the  level  sand. 

And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  he  couched, 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood,  — 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched, 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile,  through  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 

Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 
Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's  blade 

As  lightly  as  the  pen. 

And  maidens  with  such  eyes  as  would  grow  dim 
Over  a  bleeding  hound, 

[  234] 


Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  of  him 
Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 

Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof  and  spire  and  dome, 

Across  her  tranquil  bay. 

Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports, 
Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 

And  summer  to  her  courts. 

But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine, 

From  some  frail  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  spring  dawn,  and  she,  still  clad  in  smiles, 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned  isles, 

As  fair  and  free  as  now? 

We  know  not;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 

God  has  inscribed  her  doom; 
And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

The  triumph  or  the  tomb. 


[235] 


SPRING 

BY  HENRY   TIMROD 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air 
Which  dwells  with  all  things  fair, 
Spring,  with  her  golden  suns  and  silver  rain, 
Is  with  us  once  again. 

Out  in  the  lonely  woods  the  jasmine  burns 
Its  fragrant  lamps,  and  turns 
Into  a  royal  court  with  green  festoons 
The  banks  of  dark  lagoons. 

In  the  deep  heart  of  every  forest  tree 
The  blood  is  all  aglee, 

And  there's  a  look  about  the  leafless  bowers 
As  if  they  dreamed  of  flowers. 

Yet  still  on  every  side  we  trace  the  hand 
Of  Winter  in  the  land, 
Save  where  the  maple  reddens  on  the  lawn, 
Flushed  by  the  season's  dawn; 

Or  where,  like  those  strange  semblances  we  find 
That  age  to  childhood  bind, 
The  elm  puts  on,  as  if  in  Nature's  scorn, 
The  brown  of  autumn  corn. 

As  yet  the  turf  is  dark,  although  you  know 
That,  not  a  span  below, 

[236] 


A  thousand  germs  are  groping  through  the  gloom 
And  soon  will  burst  their  tomb. 

In  gardens  you  may  note,  amid  the  dearth, 
The  crocus  breaking  earth; 

And,  near  the  snowdrop's  tender  white  and  green 
The  violet  in  its  screen. 

But  many  gleams  and  shadows  need  must  pass 
Along  the  budding  grass, 
And  weeks  go  by,  before  the  enamored  South 
Shall  kiss  the  rose's  mouth. 

Still  there's  a  sense  of  blossoms  yet  unborn 
In  the  sweet  airs  of  morn; 
One  almost  looks  to  see  the  very  street 
Grow  purple  at  his  feet. 

At  times  a  fragrant  breeze  comes  floating  by, 
And  brings,  you  know  not  why, 
A  feeling  as  when  eager  crowds  await, 
Before  a  palace  gate 

Some  wondrous  pageant;  and  you  scarce  would  start 
If  from  a  beech's  heart 

A  blue-eyed  Dryad,  stepping  forth,  should  say, 
" Behold  me!   I  am  May!" 

Ah!  who  would  couple  thoughts  of  war  and  crime 

With  such  a  blessed  time! 

Who  in  the  west  wind's  aromatic  breath 

Could  hear  the  call  of  Death! 

[237] 


Yet  not  more  surely  shall  the  Spring  awake 
The  voice  of  wood  and  brake 

Than  she  shall  rouse,  for  allher  tranquil  charms. 
A  million  men  to  arms. 

There  shall  be  deeper  hues  upon  her  plains 
Than  all  her  sunlit  rains, 
And  every  gladdening  influence  around, 
Can  summon  from  the  ground. 

Oh!  standing  on  this  desecrated  mold, 
Methinks  that  I  behold, 
Lifting  her  bloody  daisies  up  to  God, 
Spring  kneeling  on  the  sod, 

And  calling,  with  the  voice  of  all  her  rills, 
Upon  the  ancient  hills 

To  fall  and  crush  the  tyrants  and  the  slaves 
Who  turn  her  meads  to  graves. 


1 238  i 


A  DREAM  OF  THE   SOUTH  WIND 

BY   PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

O  fresh,  how  fresh  and  fair 
Through  the  crystal  gulfs  of  air, 
The  fairy  South  Wind  floateth  on  her  subtle  wings 
of  balm! 
And  the  green  earth  lapped  in  bliss, 
To  the  magic  of  her  kiss 
Seems  yearning  upward  fondly  through  the  golden- 
crested  calm. 

From  the  distant  tropic  strand, 
Where  the  billows,  bright  and  bland, 
Go  sweeping,  curling,  round  the  palms  with  sweet, 
faint  undertune; 
From  its  fields  of  purpling  flowers 
Still  wet  with  fragrant  showers, 
The  happy  South  Wind  lingering  sweeps  the  royal 
blooms  of  June. 

All  heavenly  fancies  rise 
On  the  perfume  of  her  sighs, 
Which  steep  the  inmost  spirit  in  a  languor  rare  and 
fine, 
And  a  peace  more  pure  than  sleep's 
Unto  dim  half -conscious  deeps, 
Transports  me,  lulled  and  dreaming,  on  its  twilight 
tides  divine. 

[  239] 


Those  dreams!  ah,  me!   the  splendor, 
So  mystical  and  tender, 
Wherewith  like  soft  heat  lightnings  they  gird  their 
meaning  round, 
And  those  waters,  calling,  calling, 
With  a  nameless  charm  enthralling, 
Like  the  ghost  of  music  melting  on  a  rainbow  spray 
of  sound! 

Touch,  touch  me  not,  nor  wake  me, 
Lest  grosser  thoughts  o'ertake  me; 
From  earth  receding  faintly  with  her  dreary  din  and 
jars  — 
What  viewless  arms  caress  me? 
What  whispered  voices  bless  me, 
With  welcomes   dropping  dew-like   from   the  weird 
and  wondrous  stars? 

Alas!   dim,  dim,  and  dimmer 
Grows  the  preternatural  glimmer 
Of  that  trance  the  South  Wind  brought  me  on  her 
subtle  wings  of  balm, 
For  behold!   its  spirit  flieth, 
And  its  fairy  murmur  dieth, 
And  the  silence  closing  round  me  is  a  dull  and  soulless 
calm! 


240 


IN  THE  WHEAT-FIELD 

BY  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

When  the  lids  of  the  virgin  Dawn  unclose, 

When  the  earth  is  fair  and  the  heavens  are  calm, 
And  the  early  breath  of  the  wakening  rose 

Floats  on  the  air  in  balm, 
I  stand  breast-high  in  the  pearly  wheat 

That  ripples  and  thrills  to  a  sportive  breeze, 
Borne  over  the  field  with  its  Hermes  feet, 

And  its  subtle  odor  of  southern  seas; 
While  out  of  the  infinite  azure  deep 
The  flashing  wings  of  the  swallows  sweep, 
Buoyant  and  beautiful,  wild  and  fleet, 
Over  the  waves  of  the  whispering  wheat. 

Aurora  faints  in  the  fulgent  fire 

Of  the  Monarch  of  Morning's  bright  embrace, 
And  the  summer  day  climbs  higher  and  higher 

Up  the  cerulean  space; 
The  pearl-tints  fade  from  the  radiant  grain, 

And  the  sportive  breeze  of  the  ocean  dies, 
And  soon  in  the  noontide's  soundless  rain 

The  fields  seemed  graced  by  a  million  eyes; 
Each  grain  with  a  glance  from  its  lidded  fold 
As  bright  as  a  gnome's  in  his  mine  of  gold, 
While  the  slumb'rous  glamour  of  beam  and  heat 
Glides  over  and  under  the  windless  wheat. 

[hi] 


Yet  the  languid  spirit  of  lazy  Noon, 

With  its  minor  and  Morphean  music  rife, 
Is  pulsing  in  low,  voluptuous  tune 

With  summer's  lust  of  life. 
Hark  to  the  droning  of  drowsy  wings, 

To  the  honey-bees  as  they  go  and  come, 
To  the  " boomer"  scarce  rounding  his  sultry  rings, 

The  gnat's  small  horn  and  the  beetle's  hum; 
And  hark  to  the  locust !  —  noon's  one  shrill  song, 
Like  the  tingling  steel  of  an  elfin  gong, 
Grows  lower  through  quavers  of  long  retreat 
To  swoon  on  the  dazzled  and  distant  wheat. 

Now  day  declines!   and  his  shafts  of  might 

Are  sheathed  in  a  quiver  of  opal  haze; 
Still  thro'  the  chastened,  but  magic  light, 

What  sunset  grandeurs  blaze! 
For  the  sky,  in  its  mellowed  luster,  seems 

Like  the  realm  of  a  master  poet's  mind,  — 
A  shifting  kingdom  of  splendid  dreams,  — 

With  fuller  and  fairer  truths  behind; 
And  the  changeful  colors  that  blend  or  part, 
Ebb  like  the  tides  of  a  loving  heart, 
As  the  splendor  melts  and  the  shadows  meet, 
And  the  tresses  of  Twilight  trail  over  the  wheat. 


[  242] 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

(At  Night) 

BY  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 

A  golden  pallor  of  voluptuous  light 

Filled  the  warm  Southern  night: 

The  moon,  clear  orbed,  above  the  sylvan  scene 

Moved  like  a  stately  queen, 

So  rife  with  conscious  beauty  all  the  while, 

What  could  she  do  but  smile 

At  her  own  perfect  loveliness  below, 

Glassed  in  the  tranquil  flow 

Of  crystal  fountains  and  unruffled  streams? 

Half  lost  in  waking  dreams, 

As  down  the  loneliest  forest  dell  I  strayed, 

Lo!  from  a  neighboring  glade, 

Flashed   through   the'  drifts   of   moonshine,    swiftly 

came 
A  fairy  shape  of  flame. 
It  rose  in  dazzling  spirals  overhead, 
Whence  to  wild  sweetness  wed, 
Poured  marvelous  melodies,  silvery  trill  on  trill; 
The  very   leaves  grew  still 
On  the  charmed  trees  to  harken;  while  for  me, 
Heart- thrilled  to  ecstasy, 

I  followed  —  followed  the  bright  shape  that  flew, 
Still  circling  up  the  blue, 
Till  as  a  fountain  that  has  reached  its  height, 

[243] 


Falls  back  in  sprays  of  light 

Slowly  dissolved,  so  that  enrapturing  lay 

Divinely  melts  away 

Through  tremulous  spaces  to  a  music-mist, 

Soon  by  the  fitful  breeze 

How  gently  kissed 

Into  remote  and  tender  silences. 


[  244] 


LIFE1 

BY  EMILY  DICKINSON 

Our  share  of  night  to  bear, 
Our  share  of  morning, 
Our  blank  in  bliss  to  fill, 
Our  blank  in  scorning. 

Here  a  star,  and  there  a  star, 
Some  lose  their  way. 
Here  a  mist,  and  there  a  mist, 
Afterwards  —  day! 

^rom  "Poems,  First  and  Second  Series."     Copyright,  1890,  by 
Roberts  Brothers. 


[245] 


PARTING1 

BY    EMILY    DICKINSON 

My  life  closed  twice  before  its  close; 
It  yet  remains  to  see 
If  Immortality  unveil 
A  third  event  to  me, 

So  huge,  so  hopeless  to  conceive, 
As  these  that  twice  befell: 
Parting  is  all  we  know  of  heaven, 
And  all  we  need  of  hell. 

.    *  From    "  Poems,   Third  Series."     Copyright,    1896,  by  Roberts 
Brothers. 


t246] 


HEART.  WE  WILL  FORGET  HIM1 

BY   EMILY   DICKINSON 

Heart,  we  will  forget  him! 

You  and  I,  to-night! 
You  may  forget  the  warmth  he  gave, 

I  will  forget  the  light. 

When  you  have  done,  pray  tell  me, 
That  I  my  thoughts  may  dim; 

Haste!  lest  while  you're  lagging, 
I  may  remember  him! 

1From   "Poems,   Third   Series."     Copyright,    1896,   by  Roberts 
Brothers. 


[  247  ] 


ALTER?    WHEN  THE  HILLS  DO1 

BY  EMILY  DICKINSON 

Alter?    When  the  hills  do. 
Falter?     When  the  sun 
Question  if  his  glory 
Be  the  perfect  one. 

Surfeit?    When  the  daffodil 
Doth  of  the  dew. 
Even  as  herself,  0  friend, 
I  will  of  you! 

1  From  "  Poems,  First  and  Second  Series."     Copyright,  1890,  by 
Roberts  Brothers. 


1 248  ] 


WILD   NIGHTS1 

BY   EMILY   DICKINSON 

Wild  nights!    Wild  nights. 
Were  I  with  thee, 
Wild  nights  should  be 
Our  luxury! 

Futile  the  winds 
To  a  heart  in  port,  — 
Done  with  the  compass, 
Done  with  the  chart. 

Rowing  in  Eden! 
Ah!  the  sea! 
Might  I  but  moor 
To-night  in  thee! 

1  From  "  Poems,  First  and  Second  Series."     Copyright,  1890,  by 
Roberts  Brothers. 


[249] 


IF  I  CAN  STOP  ONE  HEART  FROM 
BREAKING1 

BY   EMILY  DICKINSON 

If  I  can  stop  one  heart  from  breaking, 

I  shall  not  live  in  vain; 
If  I  can  ease  one  life  the  aching, 

Or  cool  one  pain, 
Or  help  one  fainting  robin 

Unto  his  nest  again, 

I  shall  not  live  in  vain. 

iFrom  "Poems,  First  and  Second  Seri  s."     Copyright,  1890,  by 
Roberts  Brothers. 


250] 


SPINNING1 

BY   HELEN   HUNT   JACKSON 

Like  a  blind  spinner  in  the  sun, 

I  tread  my  days; 
I  know  that  all  the  threads  will  run 

Appointed  ways; 
I  know  each  day  will  bring  its  task, 
And,  being  blind,  no  more  I  ask. 

I  do  not  know  the  use  or  name 

Of  that  I  spin; 
I  only  know  that  some  one  came, 

And  laid  within 
My  hand  the  thread,  and  said,  "  Since  you 
Are  blind,  but  one  thing  you  can  do." 

Sometimes  the  threads  so  rough  and  fast 

And  tangled  fly, 
I  know  wild  storms  are  sweeping  past 

And  fear  that  I 
Shall  fall;  but  dare  not  try  to  find 
A  safer  place,  since  I  am  blind. 

I  know  not  why,  but  I  am  sure 

That  tint  and  place, 
In  some  great  fabric  to  endure 

Past  time  and  race 

1  From  "  Poems,"     Copyright,  1892,  by  Roberts  Brothers. 

[251] 


My  threads  will  have;  so  from  the  first, 
Though  blind,  I  never  felt  accurst. 

I  think,  perhaps,  this  trust  has  sprung 

From  one  short  word 
Said  over  me  when  I  was  young,  — 

So  young,  I  heard 
It,  knowing  not  that  God's  name  signed 
My  brow  and  sealed  me  his,  though  blind. 

But  whether  this  be  seal  or  sign 

Within,  without, 
It  matters  not.     The  bond  divine 

I  never  doubt. 
I  know  he  set  me  here,  and  still, 
And  glad,  and  blind,  I  wait  his  will; 

But  listen,  listen,  day  by  day, 

To  hear  their  tread 
Who  bear  the  finished  web  away, 

And  cut  the  thread, 
And  bring  God's  message  in  the  sun, 
"Thou  poor  blind  spinner,  work  is  done." 


[252] 


EMBRYO 

BY  MARY  ASHLEY  TOWNSEND 

I  feel  a  poem  in  my  heart  to-night, 

A  still  thing  growing,  — 
As  if  the  darkness  to  the  outer  light 

A  song  were  owing : 
A  something  strangely  vague,  and  sweet,  and  sad, 

Fair,  fragile,  slender; 
Not  fearful,  yet  not  daring  to  be  glad, 

And  oh,  so  tender! 

It  may  not  reach  the  outer  world  at  all, 

Despite  its  growing; 
Upon  a  poem-bud  such  cold  winds  fall 

To  blight  its  blowing. 
But,  oh,  whatever  may  the  thing  betide, 

Free  life  or  fetter, 
My  heart,  just  to  have  held  it  till  it  died, 

Will  be  the  better! 


1253] 


DECEMBER 

BY   JOEL   BENTON 

When  the  feud  of  hot  and  cold 

Leaves  the  autumn  woodlands  bare; 

When  the  year  is  getting  old, 

And  flowers  are  dead,  and  keen  the  air; 

When  the  crow  has  new  concern, 
And  early  sounds  his  raucous  note; 

And  —  where  the  late  witch-hazels  burn  — 
The  squirrel  from  a  chuckling  throat 

Tells  that  one  larder's  space  is  filled, 

And  tilts  upon  a  towering  tree, 
And,  valiant,  quick,  and  keenly  thrilled, 

Upstarts  the  tiny  chickadee; 

When  the  sun's  still  shortening  arc 

Too  soon  night's  shadows  dun  and  gray 

Brings  on,  and  fields  are  drear  and  dark, 
And  summer  birds  have  flown  away,  — 

I  feel  the  year's  slow-beating  heart, 
The  sky's  chill  prophecy  I  know; 

And  welcome  the  consummate  art 

Which  weaves  this  spotless  shroud  of  snow! 


254 


_ 


PAN  IN  WALL  STREET 

A.D.    1867 
BY  EDMUND   CLARENCE    STEDMAN 

Just  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 

Looks  over  Wall  Street's  mingled  nations; 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 

To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quotations; 
Where,  hour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold 

Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people, 
The  quarter-chimes,  serenely  tolled 

From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple,  — 

Even  there  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 

Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamor, 
Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  hammer; 
And  swift,  on  Music's  misty  ways, 

It  led,  from  all  this  strife  for  millions, 
To  ancient,  sweet-do-nothing  days 

Among  the  kir de-robed  Sicilians. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 

I  saw  the  minstrel,  where  he  stood 
At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar : 

One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan's-pipe  (fashioned 

[25s] 


Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  made 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impassioned. 

'T  was  Pan  himself  had  wandered  here 

A-strolling  through  this  sordid  city 
And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty! 
The  demigod  had  crossed  the  seas, — 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymph,  and  satyr, 
And  Syracusan  times, —  to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head; 

But  —  hidden  thus  —  there  was  no  doubting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'erspread, 

His  gnarled  horns  were  somewhere  sprouting; 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 

Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you  see  them, 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues, 

Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath  them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound, 

And  o'er  his  mouth  their  changes  shifted, 
And  with  his  goat's-eyes  looked  around 

Where'er  the  passing  current  drifted; 
And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear  him, 
Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 

With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near  him. 

The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 

From  Jauncey  Court  and  New  Street  Alley, 

[256] 


As  erst,  if  pastorals  be  true, 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley; 
The  random  passers  stayed  to  list,  — 

A  boxer  Aegon,  rough  and  merry, 
A  Broadway  Daphnis,  on  his  tryst 

With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry. 

A  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern, 
And  Galatea  joined  the  throng,  — 

A  blowsy,  apple-vending  slattern; 
While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 

From  some  new-fangled  lunch-house  handy, 
And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout, 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy! 

A  newsboy  and  a  peanut-girl 

Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper: 
His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawny  legs  were  bare  and  taper; 
And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 

And  gave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher, 
While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 

His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

0  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught  her,  - 
Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water! 
New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean-portals, 

[257] 


But  Music  waves  eternal  wands,  — 
Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals! 

So  thought  I,  —  but  among  us  trod 

A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton, 
And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demigod, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 
Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

"  Great  Pan  is  dead! "  —  and  all  the  people 
Went  on  their  ways :  —  and  clear  and  high 

The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 


[258] 


BEER 
by  george  arnold 

Here, 

With  my  beer 

I  sit, 

While  golden  moments  flit: 

Alas! 

They  pass 

Unheeded  by: 

And,  as  they  fly, 

I, 

Being  dry, 

Sit,  idly  sipping  here 
My  beer. 

O,  finer  far 

Than  fame,  or  riches,  are 

The  graceful  smoke- wreaths  of  this  free  cigar! 

Why 

Should  I 

Weep,  wail,  or  sigh? 

What  if  luck  has  passed  me  by? 

What  if  my  hopes  are  dead,  — 

My  pleasures  fled? 

Have  I  not  still 

My  fill 

Of  right  good  cheer,  — 

Cigars  and  beer? 

[259] 


Go,  whining  youth, 

Forsooth! 

Go,  weep  and  wail, 

Sigh  and  grow  pale, 

Weave  melancholy  rhymes 

On  the  old  times, 
Whose  joys  like  shadowy  ghosts  appear, 
But  leave  to  me  my  beer! 

Gold  is  dross,  — 

Love  is  loss,  — 
So,  if  I  gulp  my  sorrows  down, 
Or  see  them  drown 
In  foamy  draughts  of  old  nut-brown, 
Then  do  I  wear  the  crown, 

Without  the  cross! 


[  260 


THE   GOLDEN  FISH 

BY  GEORGE  ARNOLD 

Love  is  a  little  golden  fish, 

Wondrous  shy  ...  ah,  wondrous  shy  .  . 
You  may  catch  him  if  you  wish; 
He  might  make  a  dainty  dish  .  .  . 

But  I  .  .  . 

Ah,  I've  other  fish  to  fry! 

For  when  I  try  to  snare  this  prize, 

Earnestly  and  patiently, 
All  my  skill  the  rogue  defies, 
Lurking  safe  in  Aimee's  eyes  .  .  . 

So,  you  see, 

I  am  caught  and  Loye  goes  free! 


[261 


THE   CRICKETS 

BY   HARRIET  MCEWEN   KIMBALL 

Pipe,  little  minstrels  of  the  waning  year, 

In  gentle  concert  pipe ! 
Pipe  the  warm  noons;    the  mellow  harvest  near; 

The  apples  dropping  ripe; 

The  tempered  sunshine  and  the  softened  shade; 

The  trill  of  lonely  bird; 
The  sweet  sad  hush  on  Nature's  gladness  laid; 

The  sounds  through  silence  heard! 

Pipe  tenderly  the  passing  of  the  year; 

The  Summer's  brief  reprieve; 
The  dry  husk  rustling  round  the  yellow  ear; 

The  chill  of  morn  and  eve! 

Pipe  the  untroubled  trouble  of  the  year; 

Pipe  low  the  painless  pain; 
Pipe  your  unceasing  melancholy  cheer; 

The  year  is  in  the  wane. 


[262] 


WITH  A  NANTUCKET  SHELL 

BY   CHARLES   HENRY   WEBB 

I  send  thee  a  shell  from  the  ocean  beach; 
But  listen  thou  well,  for  my  shell  hath  speech. 

Hold  to  thine  ear, 

And  plain  thou'lt  hear 

Tales  of  ships 

That  were  lost  in  the  rips, 

Or  that  sunk  on  shoals 

Where  the  bell-buoy  tolls, 
And  ever  and  ever  its  iron  tongue  rolls 
In  a  ceaseless  lament  for  the  poor  lost  souls. 

And  a  song  of  the  sea 

Has  my  shell  for  thee; 

The  melody  in  it 

Was  hummed  at  Wauwinet, 

And  caught  at  Coatue 

By  the  gull  that  flew 
Outside  to  the  ship  with  its  perishing  crew. 

But  the  white  wings  wave 

Where  none  may  save, 
And  there's  never  a  stone  to  mark  a  grave. 

See,  its  sad  heart  bleeds 
For  the  sailors'  needs; 
But  it  bleeds  again 

[263] 


For  more  mortal  pain, 

More  sorrow  and  woe, 

Than  is  theirs  who  go 
With  shuddering  eyes  and  whitening  lips 
Down  in  the  sea  on  their  shattered  ships. 

Thou  fearest  the  sea? 

And  a  tyrant  is  he,  — 
A  tyrant  as  cruel  as  tyrant  may  be; 

But  though  winds  fierce  blow, 

And  the  rocks  He  low, 

And  the  coast  be  lee, 

This  I  say  to  thee: 
Of  Christian  souls  more  have  been  wrecked  on  shore 

Than  ever  were  lost  at  sea! 


[264] 


BETHLEHEM 

BY   BISHOP   PHILLIPS   BROOKS 

0  little  town  of  Bethlehem, 

How  still  we  see  thee  lie; 
Above  thy  deep  and  dreamless  sleep 

The  silent  stars  go  by: 
Yet  in  thy  dark  streets  shineth 

The  everlasting  Light; 
The  hopes  and  fears  of  all  the  years 

Are  met  in  thee  to-night. 

For  Christ  is  born  of  Mary; 

And  gathered  all  above, 
While  mortals  sleep,  the  angels  keep 

Their  watch  of  wondering  love. 
O  morning  stars,  together 

Proclaim  the  holy  birth; 
And  praises  sing  to  God  the  King, 

And  peace  to  men  on  earth. 

How  silently,  how  silently, 

The  wondrous  gift  is  given! 
So  God  imparts  to  human  hearts 

The  blessings  of  His  heaven. 
No  ear  may  hear  His  coming, 

But  in  this  world  of  sin, 
Where  meek  souls  will  receive  Him  still, 

The  dear  Christ  enters  in. 

[265] 


O  holy  Child  of  Bethlehem, 

Descend  to  us,  we  pray; 
Cast  out  our  sin,  and  enter  in, 

Be  born  in  us  to-day. 
We  hear  the  Christmas  angels 

The  great  glad  tidings  tell; 
0  come  to  us,  abide  with  us, 

Our  Lord  Emmanuel. 


266  I 


"IF  THERE  WERE  DREAMS   TO   SELL"1 

BY    LOUISE    CHANDLER   MOULTON 

//  there  were  dreams  to  sell  what  would  you  buy? 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Do  I  not  know  full  well 

What  I  would  buy? 
Hope's  dear  delusive  spell 
Its  happy  tale  to  tell, 

Joy's  fleeting  sigh. 

I  would  be  young  again; 
Youth's  madding  bliss  and  bane 

I  would  recapture; 
Though  it  were  keen  with  pain, 
All  else  seems  void  and  vain 

To  that  fine  rapture. 

I  would  be  glad  once  more, 
Slip  through  an  open  door 

Into  Life's  glory; 
Keep  what  I  spent  of  yore, 
Find  what  I  lost  before, 

Hear  an  old  story. 

1  Copyright,  1908,  by  Little,  Brown  and  Co.     Used  by  permission. 

[267] 


As  it  one  day  befell, 
Breaking  Death's  frozen  spell, 

Love  should  draw  nigh: 
If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Do  I  not  know  too  well 

What  I  would  buy? 


[268 


DO  NOT   GRIEVE1 

BY   LOUISE   CHANDLER  MOULTON 

I  would  not  have  you  mourn  too  much, 

When  I  am  lying  low,  — 
Your  grief  would  grieve  me  even  then, 

Should  your  tears  flow. 

But  only  plant  above  my  grave 

One  little  sprig  of  rue; 
Then  find  yourself  a  fairer  love, 

But  not  more  true. 

The  summer  winds  will  come  and  go 

Above  me  as  I  lie; 
And  if  I  think  at  all,  my  dear, 

As  they  pass  by/ 

I  shall  remember  the  old  love, 

With  all  its  bliss  and  bane,  — 
Though  Life  nor  Death  can  bring  me  back 

The  old,  sweet  pain. 

Copyright,  1908,  by  Little,  Brown  and  Co.     Used  by  permission. 


[269] 


BEFORE  THE  RAIN 

BY   THOMAS   BAILEY   ALDRICH 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn 

A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 
Was  lowering  its  golden  buckets  down 

Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens  — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind  —  and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rainl 


[270] 


AFTER  THE   RAIN 

BY   THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood; 

And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 

The  ancient  cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 

From  out  the  dripping  ivy  leaves, 
Antiquely  carven,  gray  and  high, 

A  dormer,  facing  westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye. 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  globe  of  gold,  a  disk,  a  speck; 

And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


[271] 


TIGER-LILIES 

BY  THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH 

I  like  not  lady-slippers, 
Nor  yet  the  sweet-pea  blossoms, 
Nor  yet  the  flaky  roses, 
Red,  or  white  as  snow; 
I  like  the  chaliced  lilies, 
The  heavy  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 
That  in  our  garden  grow. 

For  they  are  tall  and  slender; 

Their  mouths  are  dashed  with  carmine; 

And  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  them, 

On  their  emerald  stalks 

They  bend  so  proud  and  graceful  — 

They  are  Circassian  women, 

The  favorites  of  the  Sultan, 

Adown  our  garden  walks. 

And  when  the  rain  is  falling, 

I  sit  beside  the  window 

And  watch  them  glow  and  glisten, 

How  they  burn  and  glow ! 

Oh  for  the  burning  lilies, 

The  tender  Eastern  lilies, 

The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 

That  in  our  garden  grow! 

[  272  ] 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SEA 

BY   THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH 

In  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 

I  hear  the  voice  of  the  sea, 
In  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 

It  seems  to  say  to  me  — 
Mine  are  the  winds  above, 

Mine  are  the  caves  below, 
Mine  are  the  dead  of  yesterday 

And  the  dead  of  long  ago! 
And  I  think  of  the  fleet  that  sailed 

From  the  lovely  Gloucester  shore, 
I  think  of  the  fleet  that  sailed 

And  came  back  nevermore; 
My  eyes  are  rilled  with  tears, 

And  my  heart  is  numb  with  woe  - 
It  seems  as  if  't  were  yesterday, 

And  it  all  was  long  ago ! 


I  '273  1 


A  TOUCH  OF  NATURE 

BY   THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH 

When  first  the  crocus  thrusts  its  point  of  gold 
Up  through  the  still  snow-drifted  garden  mould. 
And  folded  green  things  in  dim  woods  unclose 
Their  crinkled  spears,  a  sudden  tremor  goes 
Into  my  veins  and  makes  me  kith  and  kin 
To  every  wild-born  thing  that  thrills  and  blows. 
Sitting  beside  this  crumbling  sea-coal  fire, 
Here  in  the  city's  ceaseless  roar  and  din, 
Far  from  the  brambly  paths  I  used  to  know, 
Far  from  the  rustling  brooks  that  slip  and  shine 
Where  the  Neponset  alders  take  their  glow, 
I  share  the  tremulous  sense  of  bud  and  brier 
And  inarticulate  ardors  of  the  vine. 


[274] 


I'LL  NOT  CONFER  WITH  SORROW 

BY   THOMAS    BAILEY   ALDRICH 

I'll  not  confer  with  Sorrow 

Till  tomorrow; 
But  Joy  shall  have  her  way 

This  very  day. 

Ho,  eglantine  and  cresses 

For  her  tresses !  — 
Let  Care,  the  beggar,  wait 

Outside  the  gate. 

Tears  if  you  will  —  but  after 

Mirth  and  laughter; 
Then,  folded  hands  on  breast 

And  endless  rest. 


l275] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE   GODDESS 

BY   THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH 

A  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 
And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof, 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 

Of  old,  when  I  walked  on  a  rugged  way, 
And  gave  much  work  for  but  little  bread, 
The  Goddess  dwelt  with  me  night  and  day, 
Sat  at  my  table,  haunted  my  bed. 

The  narrow,  mean  attic,  I  see  it  now!  — 
Its  window  o'erlooking  the  city's  tiles, 
The  sunset's  fires,  and  the  clouds  of  snow, 
And  the  river  wandering  miles  and  miles. 

Just  one  picture  hung  in  the  room, 
The  saddest  story  that  Art  can  tell  — 
Dante  and  Virgil  in  lurid  gloom 
Watching  the  Lovers  float  through  Hell. 

Wretched  enough  was  I  sometimes, 
Pinched,  and  harassed  with  vain  desires; 
But  thicker  than  clover  sprung  the  rhymes 
As  I  dwelt  like  a  sparrow  among  the  spires. 
[276] 


Midnight  filled  my  slumbers  with  song; 
Music  haunted  my  dreams  by  day. 
Now  I  listen  and  wait  and  long, 
But  the  Delphian  airs  have  died  away. 

I  wonder  and  wonder  how  it  befell: 
Suddenly  I  had  friends  in  crowds; 
I  bade  the  house-tops  a  long  farewell; 
"Good-by,"  I  cried,  "to  the  stars  and  clouds  I 

"But  thou,  rare  soul,  thou  hast  dwelt  with  me, 
Spirit  of  Poesy!  thou  divine 
Breath  of  the  morning,  thou  shalt  be, 
Goddess!  for  ever  and  ever  mine." 

And  the  woman  I  loved  was  now  my  bride, 
And  the  house  I  wanted  was  my  own; 
I  turned  to  the  Goddess  satisfied  — 
But  the  Goddess  had  somehow  flown. 

Flown,  and  I  fear  she  will  never  return; 
I  am  much  too  sleek  and  happy  for  her, 
Whose  lovers  must  hunger  and  waste  and  burn, 
Ere  the  beautiful  heathen  heart  will  stir. 

I  call  —  but  she  does  not  stoop  to  my  cry; 
I  wait  —  but  she  lingers,  and  ah!  so  long! 
It  was  not  so  in  the  years  gone  by, 
When  she  touched  my  lips  with  chrism  of  song. 

[277] 


I  swear  I  will  get  me  a  garret  again, 
And  adore,  like  a  Parsee,  the  sunset's  fires, 
And  lure  the  Goddess,  by  vigil  and  pain, 
Up  with  the  sparrowrs  among  the  spires. 

For  a  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof, 
And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 
With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof. 
To  keep  the  Goddess  constant  and  glad. 


[278] 


THE   SANDPIPER 

BY    CELIA   THAXTER 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I, 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 

The  scattered  driftwood  bleached  and  dry. 
The  wild  waves  reach  their  hands  for  it, 

The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit,  — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 

Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky; 
Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 

Stand  out  the  white  lighthouses  high. 
Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 

I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly, 
As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach,  — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry; 
He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery. 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong; 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye: 
Staunch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and  strong, 

The  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

[279] 


Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night 

When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously? 
My  driftwood  fire  will  burn  so  bright! 

To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  fly? 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 

The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky: 
For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 

Thou,  little  sandpiper,  and  I  ? 


[280] 


WAITING 

BY  JOHN  BURROUGHS 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  nor  tide,  nor  sea; 

I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate, 
For  lo !    my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays, 
For  what  avails  this  eager  pace? 

I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways, 
And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day, 
The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me ; 

No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray 
Nor  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 

What  matter  if  I  stand  alone? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years; 
My  heart  shall  reap  where  it  has  sown, 

And  garner  up  its  fruit  of  tears. 

The  law  of  love  binds  every  heart 
And  knits  it  to  its  utmost  kin, 

Nor  can  our  lives  flow  long  apart 

From  souls  our  secret  souls  would  win. 

[281] 


The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky, 
The  tidal  wave  comes  to  the  sea; 

Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high 
Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 


[282] 


MY  CATBIRD 

A   Capriccio 

BY  WILLIAM  HENRY  VENABLE 

Prime  can  tan  te! 

Scherzo!    Andante! 

Piano,  pianissimo! 

Presto,  prestissimo! 

Hark !  are  there  nine  birds  or  ninety  and  nine? 

And  now  a  miraculous  gurgling  gushes 

Like  nectar  from  Hebe's  Olympian  bottle, 

The  laughter  of  tune  from  a  rapturous  throttle! 

Such  melody  must  be  a  hermit- thrush's! 

But  that  other  caroler;  nearer, 

Outrivaling  rivalry  with  clearer 

Sweetness  incredibly  fine! 

Is  it  oriole,  red-bird,  or  blue-bird, 

Or  some  strange,  un-Auduboned  new  bird? 

All  one,  sir,  both  this  bird  and  that  bird; 
The  whole  flight  are  all  the  same  catbird! 
The  whole  visible  and  invisible  choir  you  see 
On  one  lithe  twig  of  yon  green  tree. 
Flitting,  feathery  Blondel! 
Listen  to  his  rondel! 
To  his  lay  romantical, 
To  his  sacred  canticle. 

[283] 


Hear  him  lilting! 

See  him  tilting 

His  saucy  head  and  tail,  and  fluttering 

While  uttering 

All  the  difficult  operas  under  the  sun 

Just  for  fun; 

Or  in  tipsy  revelry, 

Or  at  love  devilry, 

Or,  disdaining  his  divine  gift  and  art, 

Like  an  inimitable  poet 

Who  captivates  the  world's  heart, 

And  doesn't  know  it. 

Hear  him  lilt! 

See  him  tilt! 

Then  suddenly  he  stops, 

Peers  about,  flirts,  hops, 

As  if  looking  where  he  might  gather  up 

The  wasted  ecstasy  just  spilt 

From  the  quivering  cup 

Of  his  bliss  overrun. 

Then,  as  in  mockery  of  all 

The  tuneful  spells  that  e'er  did  fall 

From  vocal  pipe,  or  evermore  shall  rise, 

He  snarls,  and  mews,  and  flies. 


[284] 


EXPERIENCE 

BY  WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

The  first  time,  when  at  night  I  went  about 

Locking  the  doors  and  windows  everywhere, 

After  she  died,  I  seemed  to  lock  her  out 

In  the  starred  silence  and  the  homeless  air, 

And  leave  her  waiting  in  her  gentle  way 

All  through  the  night,  till  the  disconsolate  day, 

Upon  the  threshold,  while  we  slept,  awake: 

Such  things  the  heart  can  bear  and  yet  not  break. 


[285] 


THANKSGIVING 

BY   WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 


Lord,  for  the  erring  thought 
Not  into  evil  wrought : 
Lord,  for  the  wicked  will 
Betrayed  and  baffled  still: 
For  the  heart  from  itself  kept, 
Our  thanksgiving  accept 

ii 

For  ignorant  hopes  that  were 
Broken  to  our  blind  prayer: 
For  pain,  death,  sorrow,  sent 
Unto  our  chastisement: 
For  all  loss  of  seeming  good, 
Quicken  our  gratitude. 


1*86] 


A  CHILD'S  WISH1 

{Before  an  Altar) 

BY   ABRAM   JOSEPH   RYAN 

I  wish  I  were  the  little  key 

That  locks  Love's  Captive  in, 
And  lets  Him  out  to  go  and  free 

A  sinful  heart  from  sin. 

I  wish  I  were  the  little  bell 

That  tinkles  for  the  Host, 
When  God  comes  down  each  day  to  dwell 

With  hearts  He  loves  the  most. 

I  wish  I  were  the  chalice  fair 

That  holds  the  Blood  of  Love, 
When  every  gleam  lights  holy  prayer 

Upon  its  way  above. 

I  wish  I  were  the  little  flower 

So  near  the  Host's  sweet  face, 
Or  like  the  light  that  half  an  hour 

Burns  on  the  shrine  of  grace. 

I  wish  I  were  the  altar  where, 

As  on  His  mother's  breast, 
Christ  nestles,  like  a  child,  fore'er 

In  Eucharistic  rest. 

1From  "Poems:  Patriotic,  Religious,  Miscellaneous."     Copyright, 
1880,  by  P.  J.  Kenedy  &  Sons. 

[237] 


But,  oh,  my  God!  I  wish  the  most 
That  my  poor  heart  may  be 

A  home  all  holy  for  each  Host 
That  comes  in  love  to  me. 


[288] 


L 


MY  MARYLAND 

BY  JAMES  RYDER  RANDALL 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland! 
Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Hark  to  an  exile  son's  appeal, 

Maryland! 
My  Mother  State,  to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland! 
For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland! 
Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

[289] 


Come!    't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland ! 
With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 
She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain,  — 
" Sic  semper!"  't  is  the  proud  refrain 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Come!   for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland! 
Come!   for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland ! 
Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
Stalking  with  Liberty  along, 
And  chant  thy  dauntless  slogan-song, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 
Maryland! 

[  29°  ] 


For  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 
But  lo!    there  surges  forth  a  shriek, 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek, 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 
Better  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl 
Than  crucifixion'  of  the  soul, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland  I 
She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb; 
Huzza!   she  spurns  the  Northern  scum! 
She  breathes!   She  burns!   She'll  come! 
She'll  come! 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 


291  ] 


GRIZZLY 

BY   FRANCIS   BRET  HARTE 

Coward,  —  of  heroic  size, 
In  whose  lazy  muscles  lies 
Strength  we  fear  and  yet  despise; 
Savage,  —  whose  relentless  tusks 
Are  content  with  acorn  husks; 
Robber,  —  whose  exploits  ne'er  soared 
O'er  the  bee's  or  squirrel's  hoard; 
Whiskered  chin,  and  feeble  nose, 
Claws  of  steel  on  baby  toes,  — 
Here,  in  solitude  and  shade, 
Shambling,  shuffling  plantigrade, 
Be  thy  courses  undismayed! 

Here,  where  Nature  makes  thy  bed, 
Let  thy  rude,  half -human  tread 

Point  to  hidden  Indian  springs, 
Lost  in  ferns  and  fragrant  grasses, 

Hovered  o'er  by  timid  wings, 
Where  the  wood-duck  lightly  passes, 
Where  the  wild  bee  holds  her  sweets, 
Epicurean  retreats, 
Fit  for  thee,  and  better  than 
Fearful  spoils  of  dangerous  man. 
In  thy  fat-jowled  deviltry 
Friar  Tuck  shall  live  in  thee; 
[292] 


Thou  mayest  levy  tithe  and  dole; 

Thou  shalt  spread  the  woodland  cheer, 
From  the  pilgrim  taking  toll; 

Match  thy  cunning  with  his  fear; 
Eat,  and  drink,  and  have  thy  fill; 
Yet  remain  an  outlaw  still! 


[293] 


COYOTE 

BY  FRANCIS    BRET  HARTE 

Blown  out  of  the  prairie  in  twilight  and  dew, 
Half  bold  and  half  timid,  yet  lazy  all  through; 
Loath  ever  to  leave,  and  yet  fearful  to  stay, 
He  limps  in  the  clearing,  —  an  outcast  in  gray. 

A  shade  on  the  stubble,  a  ghost  by  the  wall, 
Now  leaping,  now  limping,  now  risking  a  fall, 
Lop-eared  and  large-jointed,  but  ever  alway 
A  thoroughly  vagabond  outcast  in  gray. 

Here,  Carlo,  old  fellow,  —  he's  one  of  your  kind,  — 
Go,  seek  him,  and  bring  him  in  out  of  the  wind. 
What!  snarling,  my  Carlo!    So  —  even  dogs  may 
Deny  their  own  kin  in  the  outcast  in  gray. 

Well,  take  what  you  will,  —  though  it  be  on  the  sly, 
Marauding,  or  begging,  —  I  shall  not  ask  why; 
But  will  call  it  a  dole,  just  to  help  on  his  way 
A  four-footed  friar  in  orders  of  gray ! 


[294 


THE  PETRIFIED   FERN 

BY   MARY  LYDIA   BOLLES   BRANCH 

In  a  valley,  centuries  ago, 

Grew  a  little  fern-leaf,  green  and  slender, 
Veining  delicate  and  fibers  tender; 

Waving  when  the  wind  crept  down  so  low. 

Rushes  tall,  and  moss,  and  grass  grew  round  it, 
Playful  sunbeams  darted  in  and  found  it, 
Drops  of  dew  stole  in  by  night  and  crowned  it, 
But  no  foot  of  man  e'er  trod  that  way; 
Earth  was  young,  and  keeping  holiday. 

Monster  fishes  swam  the  silent  main, 

Stately  forests  waved  their  giant  branches, 
Mountains  hurled  their  snowy  avalanches, 

Mammoth  creatures  stalked  across  the  plain; 
Nature  reveled  in  grand  mysteries; 
But  the  little  fern  was  not  of  these, 
Did  not  number  with  the  hills  and  trees; 
Only  grew  and  waved  its  wild  sweet  way,  — 
No  one  came  to  note  it  day  by  day. 

Earth,  one  time,  put  on  a  frolic  mood, 

Heaved  the  rocks  and  changed  the  mighty  motion 
Of  the  deep,  strong  currents  of  the  ocean; 

Moved  the  plain  and  shook  the  haughty  wood, 
Crushed  the  little  fern  in  soft  moist  clay, 

[295] 


Covered  it,  and  hid  it  safe  away. 
Oh,  the  long,  long  centuries  since  that  day! 
Oh,  the  agony!     Oh,  life's  bitter  cost, 
Since  that  useless  little  fern  was  lost! 

Useless?    Lost?    There  came  a  thoughtful  man 
Searching  Nature's  secrets,  far  and  deep; 
From  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  steep 

He  withdrew  a  stone,  o'er  which  there  ran 
Fairy  pencilings,  a  quaint  design, 
Veinings,  leafage,  fibers  clear  and  fine. 
And  the  fern's  life  lay  in  every  line! 
So,  I  think,  God  hides  some  souls  away, 
Sweetly  to  surprise  us,  the  last  day. 


[296] 


SIBYLLINE  BARTERING 

BY  EDWARD  ROWLAND   SILL 

Fate,  the  gray  Sibyl,  with  kind  eyes  above 

Closely  locked  lips,  brought  youth  a  merry  crew 

Of  proffered  friends;  the  price,  self -slaying  love. 
Proud  youth  repulsed  them.     She  and  they  with- 
drew. 

Then  she  brought  half  the  troop;  the  cost,  the  same. 

My  man's  heart  wavered :  should  I  take  the  few, 
And  pay  the  whole?     But  while  I  went  and  came, 

Fate  had  decided.     She  and  they  withdrew. 

Once  more  she  came  with,  two.  Now  life's  midday 
Left  fewer  hours  before  me.     Lonelier  grew 

The  house  and  heart.  But  should  the  late  purse  pay 
The  earlier  price?    And  she  and  they  withdrew. 

At  last  I  saw  Age  his  forerunners  send. 

Then  came  the  Sibyl,  still  with  kindly  eyes 
And  close-locked  lips,  and  offered  me  one  friend, — 

Thee,  my  one  darling!     With  what  tears  and  cries 

I  claimed  and  claim  thee;  ready  now  to  pay 
The  perfect  love  that  leaves  no  self  to  slay! 


[297] 


LIFE 

BY   EDWARD   ROWLAND    SILL 

Forenoon  and  afternoon  and  night,  —  Forenoon, 
And  afternoon  and  night,  —  Forenoon,  and  —  what! 
The  empty  song  repeats  itself.     No  more? 
Yea,  that  is  life :  make  this  forenoon  sublime, 
This  afternoon  a  psalm,  this  night  a  prayer, 
And  Time  is  conquered,  and  thy  crown  is  won. 


298] 


RETROSPECT 

BY   EDWARD   ROWLAND    SILL 

Not  all  which  we  have  been 

Do  we  remain, 
Nor  on  the  dial-hearts  of  men 

Do  the  years  mark  themselves  in  vain; 
But  every  cloud  that  in  our  sky  hath  passed, 
Some  gloom  or  glory  hath  upon  us  cast; 
And  there  have  fallen  from  us,  as  we  traveled, 

Many  a  burden  of  an  ancient  pain  — 
Many  a  tangled  cord  hath  been  unraveled, 

Never  to  bind  our  foolish  hearts  again. 
Old  loves  have  left  us,  lingeringly  and  slow, 
As  melts  away  the  distant  strain  of  low 
Sweet  music  —  waking  us  from  troubled  dreams, 
Lulling  to  holier  ones  —  that  dies  afar 
On  the  deep  night,  as  if  by  silver  beams 
Claspt  to  the  trembling  breast  of  some  charmed  star. 
And  we  have  stood  and  watched,  all  wistfully, 
While  fluttering  hopes  have  died  out  of  our  lives, 
As  One  who  follows  with  a  straining  eye 
A  bird  that  far,  far-off  fades  in  the  sky, 
A   little    rocking   speck  —  now   lost  —  and    still   he 

strives 
A  moment  to  recover  it  —  in  vain, 
Then  slowly  turns  back  to  his  work  again. 
But  loves  and  hopes  have  left  us  in  their  place, 

[299] 


Thank  God !  a  gentle  grace, 

A  patience,  a  belief  in  His  good  time, 

Worth  more  than  all  earth's  joys  to  which  we  climb. 

The  pleasant  path  of  youth  that  we  have  ranged 
Ends  here;  as  children  we  lie  down  this  even, 
But  while  we  sleep  there  is  a  stir  in  heaven  — 

A  hundred  guardian  angels  have  been  changed. 

Those  of  our  childhood  gently  have  departed 
With  its  pure  record,  writ  on  lilies,  sealed; 

And  in  their  place  stand  spirits  sterner-hearted, 
To  grave  our  manhood  on  a  brazen  shield. 


[300] 


WESTWARD   HO!1 

BY   JOAQUIN  MILLER 

What  strength!  what  strife!  what  rude  unrest! 

What  shocks!  what  half-shaped  armies  met! 

A  mighty  nation  moving  west, 

With  all  its  steely  sinews  set 

Against  the  living  forests.     Hear 

The  shouts,  the  shots  of  pioneer, 

The  rended  forests,  rolling  wheels, 

As  if  some  half-checked  army  reels, 

Recoils,  redoubles,  comes  again, 

Loud-sounding  like  a  hurricane. 

0  bearded,  stalwart,  westmost  men, 

So  tower-like,  so  Gothic  built! 

A  kingdom  won  without  the  guilt 

Of  studied  battle,  that  hath  been 

Your  blood's  inheritance.  .  .  .  Your  heirs 

Know  not  your  tombs :  the  great  plough-shares 

Cleave  softly  through  the  mellow  loam 

Where  you  have  made  eternal  home, 

And  set  no  sign.     Your  epitaphs 

Are  writ  in  furrows.     Beauty  laughs 

While  through  the  green  ways  wandering 

Beside  her  love,  slow  gathering 

White,  starry-hearted  May-time  blooms 

Above  your  lowly  leveled  tombs; 

Copyright,  1897,  by  The  Whitaker  and  Ray  Co. 
[303] 


And  then  below  the  spotted  sky 
She  stops,  she  leans,  she  wonders  why 
The  ground  is  heaved  and  broken  so, 
And  why  the  grasses  darker  grow 
And  droop  and  trail  like  wounded  wing. 

Yea,  Time,  the  grand  old  harvester, 

Has  gathered  you  from  wood  and  plain. 

We  call  to  you  again,  again; 

The  rush  and  rumble  of  the  car 

Comes  back  in  answer.     Deep  and  wide 

The  wheels  of  progress  have  passed  on; 

The  silent  pioneer  is  gone. 

His  ghost  is  moving  down  the  trees, 

And  now  we  push  the  memories 

Of  bluff,  bold  men  who  dared  and  died 

In  foremost  battle,  quite  aside. 


[304 


THE  WAYSIDE 

BY  JAMES   HERBERT  MORSE 

There  are  some  quiet  ways  — 
Ay,  not  a  few  — 

Where  the  affections  grow, 
And  noble  days 
Distil  a  gentle  praise 
That,  as  cool  dew, 
Or  aromatic  gums 
Within  a  bower, 
In  after-times  becomes 
A  calm,  perennial  dower. 

There  wayside  bush  and  briar! 
These  lend  a  grace, 

Flashing  a  glad  assent 
To  sweet  desire. 
All  their  interior  choir 
The  woodlands  place 
At  service  to  command; 
Man  need  not  know, 
In  such  a  favored  land, 
The  ways  that  proud  folk  go. 

Perhaps  the  day  may  be, 
Dear  heart  of  mine, 
When  riches  press  too  near 

[305] 


Outside,  and  we, 

To  live  unfettered,  flee 

The  great  and  fine, 

And  hide  our  little  home 

In  some  deep  grove, 

Where  they  alone  may  come 

Who  only  come  for  love. 


[306] 


A  DAY  ON  THE  HILLS 

BY   JAMES   HERBERT   MORSE 

O  life,  so  dearly  ours,  — 
Like  the  frail  clematis, 
Which  loves-  the  stones  to  kiss 
And  lie  all  day  i'  the  sun,  — 
Or  like  the  goldenrod, 
That,  massing  into  one 
A  thousand  tiny  flowers, 
Turns  up  its  yellow  gleam 
To  watch  the  great  day-god, 
Content  to  stand  and  dream 
And  live  but  in  his  beam,  — 
So  will  we  bless  this  day, 
And  be  content  to  lie 
Under  the  open  sky 
And  take  the  music  in, 
With  mind  but  half  alert 
To  penetrate  the  din 
And  bear  the  air  away, 
If  that  the  soul  alone, 
For  thinking  all  ungirt, 
Lie  open  to  its  own  — 
The  unseen,  the  unknown. 

The  morning  shall  unfold 
Her  flowers  every  one; 

[307] 


Anon,  the  blue-dipt  sun 
Kiss  down  the  pearly  drops; 
The  wind,  anon,  shall  sigh 
Along  the  maple  tops; 
And  when  the  morning,  old 
Too  early,  shall  decay, 
The  breezes  pine  and  die, 
The  birds,  thus  long  at  play, 
To  thickets  fly  away,  — 
Then  is  the  happy  time, 
When,  on  a  mossy  bed, 
With  green  boughs  overhead, 
All  labor  put  aside, 
The  pleased  body  lies; 
Up  shall  the  soul  then  glide, 
And  in  that  heavenly  clime, 
Which  ever  was  her  own, 
Soar  sweetly  to  the  skies, 
And,  from  the  body  flown* 
Be  to  herself  alone. 


t3°8] 


A  BALLAD   OF  TREES  AND 
THE  MASTER1 

BY   SIDNEY   LANIER 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

Clean  forspent,  forspent. 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Forspent  with  love  and  shame.     . 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him; 

The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him ; 

The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him 

When  into  the  woods  He  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

And  He  was  well  content. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Content  with  death  and  shame. 

When  Death  and  Shame  would  woo  Him  last, 

From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last: 

'Twas  on  a  tree  they  slew  Him  —  last, 

When  out  of  the  woods  He  came. 

^rom  "Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier."  Copyright,  1884,  1891,  by 
Mary  D.  Lanier.  Pub.  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Used  by  per- 
mission. 


[309] 


SUNRISE  l 

BY   SIDNEY   LANIER 

In  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain 

Of  the  live-oak,  the  marsh,  and  the  main. 
The  little  green  leaves  would  not  let  me  alone  in  my 

sleep ; 
Up-breathed  from  the  marshes,  a  message  of  range 

and  of  sweep, 
Interwoven    with    waftures    of    wild    sea-liberties, 
drifting, 
Came  through  the  lapped  leaves  sifting,  sifting, 
Came  to  the  gates  of  sleep. 
Then  my  thoughts,  in  the  dark  of  the  dungeon-keep 
Of  the  Castle  of  Captives  hid  in  the  City  of  Sleep, 
Upstarted,  by  twos  and  by  threes  assembling: 

The  gates  of  sleep  fell  a- trembling 
Like  as  the  lips  of  a  lady  that  forth  falter  yes, 
Shaken  with  happiness: 
The  gates  of  sleep  stood  wide. 

I  have  waked,  I  have  come,  my  beloved!     I  might 

not  abide: 
I  have  come  ere  the  dawn,  0  beloved,  my  live-oaks, 

to  hide 
In  your  gospeling  glooms,  —  to  be 
As  a  lover  in  heaven,  the  marsh  my  marsh  and  the 

sea  my  sea. 

^rom  "Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier."  Copyright,  1884,  1891,  by 
Mary  D.  Lanier.  Pub.  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Used  by  per- 
mission. 

[310]        ' 


Tell  me,  sweet  burly-barked,  man-embodied  Tree 
That  mine  arms  in  the  dark  are  embracing,   dost 

know 
From  what  fount  are  these  tears  at  thy  feet  which 

flow? 
They  rise  not  from  reason,  but  deeper  inconsequent 

deeps. 
Reason's  not  one  that  weeps. 
What  logic  of  greeting  lies 
Betwixt  dear  over-beautiful  trees  and  the  rain  of  the 

eyes? 

O  cunning  green  leaves,  little  masters!    like  as  ye 

gloss 
All  the  dull-tissued  dark  with  your  luminous  darks 

that  emboss 
The  vague  blackness  of  night  into  pattern  and  plan, 
So, 
(But  would  I  could  know,  but  would  I  could  know,) 
With  your  question   embroidering   the   dark  of   the 

question  of  man,  — 
So,  with  your  silences  purfling  this  silence  of  man 
While  his  cry  to  the  dead  for  some  knowledge  is  under 
the  ban, 
Under  the  ban,  — 
So,  ye  have  wrought  me 
Designs     n  the  night  of  our  knowledge,  —  yea,  ye 
have  taught  me, 
So, 
That  haply  we   know   somewhat  more   than   we 
know. 

[3»] 


Ye  lispers,  whisperers,  singers  in  storms, 
Ye  consciences  murmuring  faiths  under  forms, 
Ye  ministers  meet  for  each  passion  that  grieves, 
Friendly,  sisterly,  sweetheart  leaves, 
Oh,  rain  me  down  from  your  darks  that  contain  me 
Wisdoms  ye  winnow  from  winds  that  pain  me,  — 
Sift  down  tremors  of  sweet-within-sweet 
That  advise  me  of  more  than  they  bring,  —  repeat 
Me  the  woods-smell  that,  swiftly  but  now  brought 

breath 
From  the  heaven-side  bank  of  the  river  of  death,  — 
Teach  me  the  terms  of  silence,  —  preach  me 
The    passion    of    patience,  —  sift    me,  —  impeach 
me,  — 

And  there,  oh  there 
As  ye  hang  with  your  myriad  palms  upturned  in 
the  air, 
Pray  me  a  myriad  prayer. 

My  gossip,  the  owl,  —  is  it  thou. 
That  out  of  the  leaves  of  the  low-hanging  bough, 
As  I  pass  to  the  beach,  art  stirred? 

Dumb  woods,  have  ye  uttered  a  bird? 

Reverend  Marsh,  low-couched  along  the  sea, 

Old  chemist,  rapt  in  alchemy, 
Distilling  silence,  —  lo, 
That  which  our  father-age  had  died  to  know  — 

The  menstruum  that  dissolves  all  matter  —  thou 
Hast  found  it;  for  this  silence,  filling  now 
The  globed  clarity  of  receiving  space, 

[312  ] 


This  solves  us  all:  man,  matter,  doubt,  disgrace, 
Death,  love,  sin,  sanity, 
Must  in  yon  silence,  clear  solution  lie,  — 
Too  clear!     That  crystal  nothing  who'll  peruse? 
The  blackest  night  could  bring  us  brighter  news. 
Yet  precious  qualities  of  silence  haunt 
Round  these  vast  margins,  ministrant. 
Oh,  if  thy  soul's  at  latter' gasp  for  space, 
With  trying  to  breathe  no  bigger  than  thy  race 
Just  to  be  fellow'd,  when  that  thou  hast  found 
No  man  with  room,  or  grace  enough  of  bound, 
To  entertain  that  New  thou  tell'st,  thou  art,  — 
'Tis  here,  'tis  here,  thou  canst  unhand  thy  heart 
And  breathe  it  free,  and  breathe  it  free, 
By  rangy  marsh,  in  lone  sea-liberty. 

The  tide's  at  full;  the  marsh  with  flooded  streams 

Glimmers,  a  limpid  labyrinth  of  dreams. 

Each  winding  creek  in  grave  entrancement  lies 

A  rhapsody  of  morning-stars.     The  skies 

Shine  scant  with  one  forked  galaxy,  — 

The  marsh  brags  ten :  looped  on  his  breast  they  lie. 

Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made ! 

Oh,  what  if  a  bound  should  be  laid 

To  this  bow-and-string  tension  of  beauty  and  silence 

a-spring,  — 
To  the  bend  of  beauty  the  bow,  or  the  hold  of  silence 

the  string! 
I  fear  me,  I  fear  me  yon  dome  of  diaphanous  gleam 
Will  break  as  a  bubble  o'er-blown  in  a  dream,  — 

[313] 


Yon  dome  of  too-tenuous  tissues  of  space  and  of 

night, 
Over- weigh  ted  with  stars,  over-freighted  with  light, 
Over-sated  with  beauty  and  silence,  will  seem 

But  a  bubble  that  broke  in  a  dream, 
If  a  bound  of  degree  to  this  grace  be  laid, 
Or  a  sound  or  a  motion  made. 

But  no:    it  is  made:    list!    somewhere,  —  mystery, 

where? 
In  the  leaves?  in  the  air? 
In  my  heart?  is  a  motion  made: 
'Tis  a  motion  of  dawn,  like  a  flicker  of  shade  on 

shade. 
In  the  leaves  'tis  palpable:  low  multitudinous  stirring 
Up  winds  through  the  woods;  the  little  ones,  softly 

conferring, 
Have  settled  my  lord's  to  be  looked  for;  so,  they  are 

still; 
But  the  air  and  my  heart  and  the  earth  are  a-thrill,  — 
And  look  where  the  wild  duck  sails  round  the  bend 

of  the  river,  — 
And  look  where  a  passionate  shiver 
Expectant  is  bending  the  blades 
Of  the  marsh-grass  in  serial  shimmers  and  shades,  — 
And  invisible  wings,  fast  fleeting,  fast  fleeting, 

Are  beating 
The  dark  overhead  as  my  heart  beats,  —  and  steady 

and  free 
Is  the  ebb-tide  flowing  from  marsh  to  sea  — 
(Run  home,  little  streams, 

[314] 


With  your  lapfuls  of  stars  and  dreams),  — 
And  a  sailor  unseen  is  hoisting  a-peak, 
For  list,  down  the  inshore  curve  of  the  creek 

How  merrily  flutters  the  sail,  — 
And  lo,  in  the  East!     Will  the  East  unveil? 
The  East  is  unveiled,  the  East  hath  confessed 
A  flush:  'tis  dead;  'tis  alive:  'tis  dead,  ere  the  West 
Was  aware  of  it:  nay,  'tis  abiding,  'tis  unwithdrawn: 

Have  a  care,  sweet  Heaven!     'Tis  Dawn. 

Now  a  dream  of  a  flame  through  that  dream  of  a 

flush  is  uprolled : 
To  the  zenith  ascending,  a  dome  of  undazzling  gold 
Is  builded,  in  shape  as  a  bee-hive,  from  out  of  the 

sea: 
The  hive  is  of  gold  undazzling,  but  oh,  the  Bee, 
The  star-fed  Bee,  the  build-fire  Bee, 
Of  dazzling  gold  is  the  great  Sun-Bee 
That  shall  flash  from  the  hive-hole  over  the  sea. 

Yet  now  the  dewdrop,  now  the  morning  gray, 
Shall  live  their  little  lucid  sober  day 
Ere  with  the  sun  their  souls  exhale  away. 
Now  in  each  pettiest  personal  sphere  of  dew 
The  summed  morn  shines  complete  as  in  the  blue 
Big  dewdrop  of  all  heaven :  with  these  lit  shrines 
O'er-silvered  to  the  farthest  sea-confines, 
The  sacramental  marsh  one  pious  plain 
Of  worship  lies.     Peace  to  the  ante-reign 
Of  Mary  Morning,  blissful  mother  mild 
Minded  of  naught  but  peace,  and  of  a  child. 

[315] 


Not  slower  than  Majesty  moves,  for  a  mean  and  a 

measure 
Of    motion,  —  not    faster    than    dateless    Olympian 

leisure 
Might   pace   with   unblown    ample    garments    from 

pleasure  to  pleasure,  — 
The  wave-serrate  sea-rim  sinks  unjarring,  unreeling, 

Forever  revealing,  revealing,  revealing, 
Edgewise,  bladewise,  halfwise,  wholewise,  —  'tis  done! 

Good-morrow,  lord  Sun! 
With  several  voice,  with  ascription  one, 
The  woods  and  the  marsh  and  the  sea  and  my  soul 
Unto  thee,  whence  the  glittering  stream  of  all  mor- 
rows doth  roll, 
Cry  good  and  past-good  and  most  heavenly  morrow, 
Lord  Sun. 

0  Artisan  born  in  the  purple,  —  Workman  Heat,  — 

Parter  of  passionate  atoms  that  travail  to  meet 

And  be  mixed  in  the  death-cold  oneness,  —  innermost 

Guest 
At  the  marriage  of  elements,  —  fellow  of  publicans,  — 

blest 
King  in  the  blouse  of  flame,  that  loiterest  o'er 
The  idle  skies  yet  laborest  past  evermore,  — 
Thou,  in  the  fine  forge- thunder,  thou,  in  the  beat 
Of  the  heart  of  a  man,  thou  Motive,  —  Laborer  Heat: 
Yea,  Artist,  thou,  of  whose  art  yon  sea's  all  news, 
With  his  inshore  greens  and  manifold  mid-sea  blues, 
Pearl-glint,  shell-tint,  ancientest,  perfectest  hues 

[316] 


Ever  shaming  the  maidens,  —  lily  and  rose 
Confess  thee,  and  each  mild  flame  that  glows 
In  the  clarified  virginal  bosoms  of  stones  that  shine, 
It  is  thine,  it  is  thine : 

Thou  chemist  of  storms,  whether  driving  the  winds 

aswirl 
Or  a-flicker  the  subtiler  essences  polar  that  whirl 
In  the  magnet  earth,  —  yea,  thou  with  a  storm  for  a 

heart, 
Rent  with  debate,  many-spotted  with  question,  part 
From  part  oft  sundered,  yet  ever  a  globed  light, 
Yet  ever  the  artist,  ever  more  large  and  bright 
Than  the  eye  of  a  man  may  avail  of: — manifold  One, 
I  must  pass  from  the  face,  I  must  pass  from  the  face 

of  the  Sun: 
Old  Want  is  awake  and  agog,  every  wrinkle  a-frown; 
The  worker  must  pass  to  his  work  in  the  terrible  town : 
But  I  fear  not,  nay,  and  I  fear  not  the  thing  to  be 

done; 
I  am  strong  with  the  strength  of  my  lord  the  Sun : 
How  dark,  how  dark  soever  the  race  that  must  needs 

be  run, 

I  am  lit  with  the  Sun. 

Oh,  never  the  mast-high  run  of  the  seas 

Of  traffic  shall  hide  thee, 
Never  the  hell-colored  smoke  of  the  factories 

Hide  thee, 
Never  the  reek  of  the  time's  fen-politics 

Hide  thee, 

[317] 


And  ever  my  heart  through  the  night  shall  with 

knowledge  abide  thee, 
And  ever  by  day  shall  my  spirit,  as  one  that  hath 
tried  thee, 
Labor,  at  leisure,  in  art,  —  till  yonder  beside  thee 
My  soul  shall  float,  friend  Sun, 
The  day  being  done. 


[318] 


ANOTHER  WAY 

BY  AMBROSE   BIERCE 

I  lay  in  silence,  dead.     A  woman  came 
And  laid  a  rose  upon  my  breast,  and  said, 

"May  God  be  merciful."     She  spoke  my  name, 
And  added,  "It  is  strange  to  think  him  dead. 

"He  loved  me  well  enough,  but  't  was  his  way 
To  speak  it  lightly."     Then,  beneath  her  breath: 

"Besides"  —  I  knew  what  further  she  would  say, 
But  then  a  footfall  broke  my  dream  of  death. 

To-day  the  words  are  mine.     I  lay  the  rose 

Upon  her  breast,  and  speak  her  name,  and  deem 

It  strange  indeed  that  she  is  dead.     God  knows 
I  had  more  pleasure  in  the  other  dream. 

1  From  "  The  Collected  Works  of  Ambrose  Bierce."     Compiled  by 
the  author:  The  Neale  Publishing  Company,  New  York. 


lS*9] 


IN  THE  HAUNTS  OF  BASS  AND  BREAM 

BY  MAURICE   THOMPSON 


Dreams  come  true,  and  everything 
Is  fresh  and  lusty  in  the  spring. 

In  groves,  that  smell  like  ambergris, 
Wind-songs,  bird-songs,  never  cease. 

Go  with  me  down  by  the  stream, 
Haunt  of  bass  and  purple  bream; 

Feel  the  pleasure,  keen  and  sweet, 
When  the  cool  waves  lap  your  feet; 

Catch  the  breath  of  moss  and  mold, 
Hear  the  grosbeak's  whistle  bold; 

See  the  heron  all  alone 
Mid-stream  on  a  slippery  stone, 

Or,  on  some  decaying  log, 
Spearing  snail  or  water-frog; 

See  the  shoals  of  sun-perch  shine 
Among  the  pebbles  smooth  and  fine, 

[32°] 


Whilst  the  sprawling  turtles  swim 
In  the  eddies  cool  and  dim  I 

ii 

The  busy  nut-hatch  climbs  his  tree, 
Around  the  great  bole  spirally, 

Peeping  into  wrinkles  gray, 
Under  ruffled  lichens  gay, 

Lazily  piping  one  sharp  note 
From  his  silver  mailed  throat; 

And  down  the  wind  the  catbird's  song 
A  slender  medley  trails  along. 

Here  a  grackle  chirping  low, 
There  a  crested  vireo; 

Deep  in  tangled  underbrush 
Flits  the  shadowy  hermit-thrush; 

Cooes  the  dove,  the  robin  trills, 
The  crows  caw  from  the  airy  hills; 

Purple  finch  and  pewee  gray, 
Blue-bird,  swallow,  oriole  gay,  — 

Every  tongue  of  Nature  sings; 
The  air  is  palpitant  with  wings! 

[321] 


Halcyon  prophecies  come  to  pass 
In  the  haunts  of  bream  and  bass. 

m 

Bubble,  bubble,  flows  the  stream, 
Like  an  old  tune  through  a  dream. 

Now  I  cast  my  silken  line; 
See  the  gay  lure  spin  and  shine, 

While  with  delicate  touch  I  feel 
The  gentle  pulses  of  the  reel. 

Halcyon  laughs  and  cuckoo  cries; 
Through  its  leaves  the  plane-tree  sighs. 

Bubble,  bubble,  flows  the  stream, 
Here  a  glow  and  there  a  gleam; 

Coolness  all  about  me  creeping, 
Fragrance  all  my  senses  steeping,  — 

Spicewood,  sweet-gum,  sassafras, 
Calamus,  and  water-grass, 

Giving  up  their  pungent  smells, 
Drawn  from  Nature's  secret  wells; 

On  the  cool  breath  of  the  morn, 
Perfume  of  the  cock-spur  thorn, 

[322] 


Green  spathes  of  the  dragon-root, 
Indian  turnip's  tender  shoot, 

Dogwood,  red-bud,  elder,  ash, 
Snowy  gleam  and  purple  flash, 

Hillside  thickets,  densely  green, 
That  the  partridge  revels  in! 

IV 

I  see  the  morning-glory's  curl, 

The  curious  star-flower's  pointed  whorl; 

Hear  the  woodpecker,  rap-a-tap ! 
See  him  with  his  cardinal's  cap! 

And  the  querulous,  leering  jay, 
How  he  clamors  for  a  fray! 

Patiently  I  draw  and  cast, 
Keenly  expectant  till,  at  last, 

Comes  a  flash,  down  in  the  stream, 
Never  made  by  perch  or  bream. 

Then  a  mighty  weight  I  feel, 
Sings  the  line  and  whirs  the  reel! 

v 

Out  of  a  giant  tulip-tree 

A  great  gay  blossom  falls  on  me; 

[323] 


Old  gold  and  fire  its  petals  are, 
It  flashes  like  a  falling  star. 

A  big  blue  heron  flying  by 
Looks  at  me  with  a  greedy  eye. 

I  see  a  striped  squirrel  shoot 
Into  a  hollow  maple-root; 

A  bumble-bee  with  mail  all  rust, 

His  thighs  purled  out  with  anther-dust, 

Clasps  a  shrinking  bloom  about, 
And  draws  her  amber  sweetness  out. 

VI 

Bubble,  bubble,  flows  the  stream, 
Like  a  song  heard  in  a  dream. 

A  white-faced  hornet  hurtles  by, 
Lags  a»  turquoise  butterfly,  — 

One  intent  on  prey  and  treasure, 
One  afloat  on  tides  of  pleasure ! 

Sunshine  arrows,  swift  and  keen, 
Pierce  the  burr-oak's  helmet  green. 

VII 

I  follow  where  my  victim  leaps 
Through  tangles  of  rank  waterweeds, 

[324] 


O'er  stone  and  root  and  knotty  log, 
O'er  faithless  bits  of  reedy  bog. 

I  wonder  will  he  ever  stop? 

The  reel  hums  like  a  humming  top ! 

Through  graceful  curves  he  sweeps  the  line, 
He  sulks,  he  starts,  his  colors  shine, 

Whilst  I,  all  flushed  and  breathless,  tear 
Through  lady-fern  and  maiden' s-hair, 

And  in  my  straining  fingers  feel 
The  throbbing  of  the  rod  and  reel! 

A  thin  sandpiper,  wild  with  fright, 
Goes  into  ecstasies  of  flight; 

A  gaunt  green  bittern  quits  the  rushes, 
The  yellow- throat  its  warbling  hushes; 

Bubble,  bubble,  flows  the  stream, 
Like  an  old  tune  through  a  dream! 

VIII 

At  last  he  tires,  I  reel  him  in; 
I  see  the  glint  of  scale  and  fin. 

The  crinkled  halos  round  him  break, 
He  leaves  gay  bubbles  in  his  wake. 

[  32s  1 


I  raise  the  rod,  I  shorten  line, 
And  safely  land  him,  —  he  is  mine! 

IX 

The  belted  halcyon  laughs,  the  wren 
Comes  twittering  from  its  brushy  den; 

The  turtle  sprawls  upon  its  log, 
I  hear  the  booming  of  a  frog. 

Liquid  amber's  keen  perfume, 
Sweet-punk,  calamus,  tulip  bloom; 

Dancing  wasp  and  dragon-fly, 
Wood-thrush  whistling  tenderly; 

Damp  cool  breath  of  moss  and  mold, 
Noontide's  influence  manifold; 

Glimpses  of  a  cloudless  sky,  — 
Soothe  me  as  I  resting  He. 

Bubble,  bubble,  flows  the  stream, 
Like  low  music  through  a  dream. 


[326] 


"WHEN   THE    GIRLS    COME   TO 
THE    OLD    HOUSE" 

BY  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 


When  the  girls  come 

To  the  old  house,  to  the  old,  old  home; 

When  the  girls  race  through  it, 

How  will  they  endue  it 

With  light  and  warmth  and  fun, 

Beyond  the  touch  of  the  sun. 

II 

When  the  girls  run  through  it, 
How  the  old  house  will  awaken  I 
Never  fear!     It  will  not  rue  it 
When  it  feels  its  old  bones  shaken, 
From  ancient  sill  to  centuried  rafter, 
With  sweet  girl  laughter. 

hi 

When  the  girls  race  through  it, 

How  each  old  ghost  in  its  own  old  nook, 

That  it  never  forsook, 

How  it  will  run 

When  the  girls  pursue  it 

With  frolic  and  fun! 

[327] 


IV 

Old  house !  old  home !  Come,  light 

The  fires  again  on  the  dear  hearths  of  old. 

All  must  be  bright; 

Not  a  room  shall  be  cold; 

And  on  the  great  hearth  —  where,  in  the  old  days, 

Beside  the  fierce  blaze 

There  was  room  and  to  spare  for  each  grown-up  and 

child  — 
High  let  the  fire  be  piled! 


Old  house !     Old  home !    You  need  no  wine 

To  cheer  you  now,  for  the  joyous  ripple 

Of  girlish  laughter  is  quite  enough  tipple! 

Oh,  what  liquor 

Like  the  innocent  shine, 

The  sparkle  and  flicker, 

In  the  eyes  of  youth! 

And,  of  a  truth, 

'Tis  youth,  old  house!  'tis  youth  that  fills  you; 

Youth  that  calls  to  you;   youth  that  thrills  you. 

VI 

Old  house !     Old  home !     Oh,  do  not  dare 

To  be  sad,  tho'  aware 

Of  the  golden,  and  the  raven,  and  the  pretty,  pretty 

curls 
Of  the  little  dead  girls  — 
Treasures  put  away  in  the  old  chest  in  the  garret. 

[328] 


Be  glad,   old  house!   the  new  girls  have   come   to 

share  it: 
The  great,  deep  hearth,  with  room  and  to  spare; 
The  dark  garret,  and  the  wide  hall,  and  the  quaint, 

old  stair  — 
And  to  bring  back  to  earth 
The  old,  sweet  mirth. 


[329] 


THE  LIGHT'OOD   FIRE 

BY  JOHN  HENRY  BONER 

When  wintry  days  are  dark  and  drear 

And  all  the  forest  ways  grow  still, 
When  gray  snow-laden  clouds  appear 

Along  the  bleak  horizon  hill, 
When  cattle  all  are  snugly  penned 

And  sheep  go  huddling  close  together, 
When  steady  streams  of  smoke  ascend 

From  farm-house  chimneys,  —  in  such  weather 
Give  me  old  Carolina's  own, 
A  great  log  house,  a  great  hearthstone, 
A  cheering  pipe  of  cob  or  briar, 
And  a  red,  leaping  light'ood  fire. 

When  dreary  day  draws  to  a  close 

And  all  the  silent  land  is  dark, 
When  Boreas  down  the  chimney  blows 

And  sparks  fly  from  the  crackling  bark, 
When  limbs  are  bent  with  snow  or  sleet 

And  owls  hoot  from  the  hollow  tree, 
With  hounds  asleep  about  your  feet, 
Then  is  the  time  for  reverie. 
Give  me  old  Carolina's  own, 
A  hospitable  wide  hearthstone, 
A  cheering  pipe  of  cob  or  briar, 
And  a  red,  rousing  light'ood  fire. 


, 


EVOLUTION 

BY  JOHN  BANISTER  TABB 

Out  of  the  dusk  a  shadow, 

Then;  a  spark; 
Out  of  the  cloud  a  silence, 

Then,  a  lark; 
Out  of  the  heart  a  rapture, 

Then,  a  pain; 
Out  of  the  dead,  cold  ashes, 

Life  again. 


[33i  1 


CLOVER 

BY  JOHN   BANISTER  TABB 

Little  masters,  hat  in  hand 
Let  me  in  your  presence  stand, 
Till  your  silence  solve  for  me 
This  your  threefold  mystery. 

Tell  me  —  for  I  long  to  know  — 
How,  in  darkness  there  below, 
Was  your  fairy  fabric  spun, 
Spread  and  fashioned,  three  in  one. 

Did  your  gossips  gold  and  blue, 
Sky  and  Sunshine,  choose  for  you, 
Ere  your  triple  forms  were  seen, 
Suited  liveries  of  green? 

Can  ye,  —  if  ye  dwelt  indeed 
Captives  of  a  prison  seed, — 
Like  the  Genie,  once  again 
Get  you  back  into  the  grain?    . 

Little  masters,  may  I  stand 
In  your  presence,  hat  in  hand, 
Waiting  till  you  solve  for  me 
This  your  threefold  mystery? 

[332] 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

BY  JOHN   BANISTER   TABB 

No  more  the  battle  or  the  chase 

The  phantom  tribes  pursue, 
But  each  in  its  accustomed  place 

The  Autumn  hails  anew: 
And  still  from  solemn  councils  set 

On  every  hill  and  plain, 
The  smoke  of  many  a  calumet 

Ascends  to  heaven  again. 


[  333  1 


AVE  ATQUE  VALE 

BY  JOHN  BANISTER  TABB 

Where  wast  thou,  little  song, 
That  hast  delayed  so  long 

To  come  to  me? 
"Mute  in  the  mind  of  God: 
Till  where  thy  feet  had  trod, 

I  followed  thee." 


I  334] 


INFLUENCE 

BY  JOHN  BANISTER  TABB 

He  cannot  as  he  came  depart  — 
The  Wind  that  woos  the  Rose; 

Her  fragrance  whispers  in  his  heart 
Wherever  hence  he  goes. 


[335] 


THE  KEARSARGE 

BY  JAMES   JEFFREY  ROCHE 

In  the  gloomy  ocean  bed 

Dwelt  a  formless  thing,  and  said, 
In  the  dim  and  countless  eons  long  ago, 

"I  will  build  a  stronghold  high, 

Ocean's  power  to  defy, 
And  the  pride  of  haughty  man  to  lay  low." 

Crept  the  minutes  for  the  sad, 

Sped  the  cycles  for  the  glad, 
But  the  march  of  time  was  neither  less  nor  more; 

While  the  formless  atom  died, 

Myriad  millions  by  its  side, 
And  above  them  slowly  lifted  Roncador. 

Roncador  of  Caribee, 

Coral  dragor  of  the  sea, 
Ever  sleeping  with  his  teeth  below  the  wave; 

Woe  to  him  who  breaks  the  sleep ! 

Woe  to  them  who  sail  the  deep  I 
Woe  to  ship  and  man  that  fear  a  shipman's  grave! 

Hither  many  a  galleon  old, 
Heavy-keeled  with  guilty  gold, 
Fled  before  the  hardy  rover  smiting  sore; 

[  336  ] 


But  the  sleeper  silent  lay 
Till  the  preyer  and  his  prey 
Brought  their  plunder  and  their  bones  to  Roncador. 

Be  content,  O  conqueror! 

Now  our  bravest  ship  of  war, 
War  and  tempest  who  Jiad  often  braved  before, 

All  her  storied  prowess  past, 

Strikes  her  glorious  flag  at  last 
To  the  formless  thing  that  builded  Roncador. 


[337 


MY  COMRADE 

BY  JAMES   JEFFREY   ROCHE 

The  love  of  man  and  woman  is  as  fire, 
To  warm,  to  light,  but  surely  to  consume 
And  self -consuming  die.     There  is  no  room 
For  constancy  and  passionate  desire. 
We  stand  at  last  beside  a  wasted  pyre, 
Touch  its  dead  embers,  groping  in  the  gloom; 
And  where  an  altar  stood,  erect  a  tomb, 
And  sing  a  requiem  to  a  broken  lyre. 
But  comrade-love  is  as  a  welding  blast 
Of  candid  flame  and  ardent  temperature : 
Glowing  most  fervent,  it  doth  bind  more  fast; 
And  melting  both,  but  makes  the  union  sure. 
The  dross  alone  is  burnt  —  till  at  the  last 
The  steel,  if  cold,  is  one,  and  strong  and  pure. 


[338] 


A  WISHING  SONG 

BY   JOEL   CHANDLER   HARRIS 

Atter  usin'   de  spring  fer  a  lookin'-glass  — 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
Mr.  Rabbit  tuk  a  walk  on  de  pastur'-grass  — 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
De  gals  come  along  —  Will  you  let  us  pass?  — 

Des  a- wishin'. 

He  bowed,  he  did,  an'  he  shot  one  eye  — 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
An'  he  tip  his  beaver  when  dey  pass  by  — 

Des  a- wishin'. 

Oh,  ladies  all,  ain't  you  sheered  er  ha'nts? — 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
Sheered  er  no,  we're  gwine  ter  de  dance  — 

Des  a- wishin'. 

Miss  Meadows  done  say  dat  we  kin  go  — 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
An'  show  um  how  ter  skip  on  de  heel  an1  toe  — 

Des  a- wishin'. 

An'  it's  Oh,  Mr.  Rabbit,  won't  you  go  'long  ? 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
Mr.  Rabbit  chaw  his  cud  an'  wrinkle  his  face- 

Des  a- wishin'. 

[339] 


It's  right  over  yander  at  de  head  er  de  dreen  — 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
Whar  de  branch  runs  google,  an'  de  leaves  is  green  — 

Des  a- wishin'. 

Mr.  Fox'll  scrape  de  fiddle,  Miss  Cow'll  blow  de  horn  - 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
An1  de  tune  gwine  ter  tell  how  de  sheep  shell  corn  — 

Des  a- wishin'. 

Mr.  Rabbit,  he  stood  dar,  slicker  dan  sin,  — 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
A-lookin'  at  de  gals,  an'  a-rubbin'  his  chin  — 

Des  a- wishin'. 

An',  Ladies  all,  kin  you  read  me  dis  riddle  — 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
What  gwine  ter  happen  ter  my  noddle-niddle  — ; 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
When  dey's  so  much  Fox  an'  so  little  fiddle  ?  — 

Des  a- wishin'. 

So,  ladies  all,  ef  you'll  skuzen  me  — 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
I'll  santer  roun'  ter  de  Trimblin  Tree 

Des  a- wishin'. 

Til  slip  thoo  de  bushes,  an'  up  I'll  creep  — 

A-wish,  wish,  wishin'  — 
An'  listen  ter  de  Mockin-Bird  talkin'  in  his  sleep  — 

Des  a- wishin'. 

[34o] 


J 


DAYS  THAT  COME  AND   GO 

BY  JOHN  VANCE   CHENEY 

Days  that  come  and  go, 
It  is  not  worth  the  while; 

Only  one  dawn  I  know, 
The  morning  of  her  smile. 

Nights  that  come  and  go, 
In  vain  your  shadow  lies; 

Only  love's  dusk  I  know, 
The  evening  of  her  eyes. 


[341] 


GREAT  IS  TO-DAY 

BY  JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY 

Out  on  a  world  that  has  run  to  weed ! 

The  great  tall  corn  is  still  strong  in  his  seed; 

Plant  her  breast  with  laughter,  put  song  in  your  toil, 

The  heart  is  still  young  in  the  old  mother-soil: 

Never  bluer  heavens  nor  greener  sod 

Since  the  round  world  rolled  from  the  hand  of  God. 

The  clouds  keep  their  promise;  believe,  and  sow! 
There  are  sweet  banks  yet  where  the  south  winds 

blow; 
The  sun  still  plunges  and  mounts  again, 
The  new  moons  fill  when  the  old  moons  wane : 
There's  sunshine  and  bird-song,  and  red  and  white 

clover, 
And  love  lives  yet,  skies  under  and  over. 

Is  wisdom  dead  now  Solon's  no  more? 

Are  the  children  done  playing  at  the  Muses'  door? 

While  your  Plato,  your  Shakespeare,  goes  down  to 

the  tomb, 
His  brother  stirs  in  the  good  mother- womb; 
There's  dreaming  of  daisies  and  running  of  brooks, 
Yes,  life  enough  left  to  put  in  the  books. 

Out  on  a  world  that  has  run  to  weed! 
The  lusty  hours,  as  of  old  they  breed, 

[342] 


And   the  man  child  thrives.    For  your  Jacob   no 

tears; 
Rachel  is  there,  at  the  end  of  the  years. 
The  waving  of  wheat,  of  the  tall  strong  corn! 
His  heart-blood  is  water  who  wanders  forlorn. 


[343  1 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  SPADE 

BY  JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY 

On  and  on,  in  sun  and  shade, 
Footing  over  flat  and  grade, 
King  and  beggar,  foe  and  friend, 
Come,  at  last,  to  the  journey's  end; 
Stop  man  and  maid 
At  the  Sign  of  the  Spade. 

Sage  or  zany,  slave  or  blade, 
Drab  or  lady,  the  role  is  played; 
Over  grass  and  under  sun 
Past  one  hostel  trudges  none: 
Stop  man  and  maid 
At  the  Sign  of  the  Spade. 


[344] 


THE  CROWING  OF  THE  RED  COCK 

BY  EMMA   LAZARUS 

Across  the  eastern  sky  has  glowed 
The  flicker  of  a  blood-red  dawn; 

Once  more  the  clarion  cock  has  crowed, 
Once  more  the  sword  of  Christ  is  drawn. 

A  million  burning  roof-trees  light 

The  world-wide  path  of  Israel's  flight. 

Where  is  the  Hebrew's  fatherland? 

The  folk  of  Christ  is  sore  bestead; 
The  Son  of  Man  is  bruised  and  banned, 

Nor  finds  whereon  to  lay  his  head. 
His  cup  is  gall,  his  meat  is  tears, 
His  passion  lasts  a  thousand  years. 

Each  crime  that  wakes  in  man  the  beast, 

Is  visited  upon  his  kind. 
The  lust  of  mobs,  the  greed  of  priest, 

The  tyranny  of  kings,  combined 
To  root  his  seed  from  earth  again, 
His  record  is  one  cry  of  pain. 

When  the  long  roll  of  Christian  guilt 
Against  his  sires  and  kin  is  known, 

The  flood  of  tears,  the  life-blood  spilt, 
The  agony  of  ages  shown, 

[  345  ] 


What  oceans  can  the  stain  remove 
From  Christian  law  and  Christian  love? 

Nay,  close  the  book;  not  now,  not  here, 
The  hideous  tale  of  sin  narrate; 

Re-echoing  in  the  martyr's  ear, 

Even  he  might  nurse  revengeful  hate, 

Even  he  might  turn  in  wrath  sublime, 

With  blood  for  blood  and  crime  for  crime. 

Coward?    Not  he,  who  faces  death, 
Who  singly  against  worlds  has  fought, 

For  what?     A  name  he  may  not  breathe, 
For  liberty  of  prayer  and  thought. 

The  angry  sword  he  will  not  whet, 

His  nobler  task  is  —  to  forget. 


[346] 


MEADOW-LARKS 

BY   INA   COOLBRITH 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     O  happy  that  I  am! 

(Listen  to  the  meadow-larks,  across  the  fields  that 
sing!) 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     0  subtle  breath  of  balm, 
O  winds  that  blow,  O  buds  that  grow,  O  rapture  of 
the  spring! 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     O  skies,  serene  and  blue, 

That  shut  the  velvet  pastures  in,  that  fold  the 
mountain's  crest! 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!    What  of  the  clouds  ye  knew? 
The  vessels  ride  a  golden  tide,  upon  a  sea  at  rest. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!    Who  prates  of  care  and  pain? 
Who  says  that  life  is  sorrowful?     O  life  so  glad,  so 
fleet! 
Ah,  he  who  lives  the  noblest  life  finds  life  the  noblest 
gain, 
The  tears  of  pain  a  tender  rain  to  make  its  waters 
sweet. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     0  happy  world  that  is! 

Dear  heart,  I  hear  across  the  fields  my  mateling 
pipe  and  call. 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!    O  world  so  full  of  bliss,  — 

For  life  is  love,  the  world  is  love,  and  love  is  over  all! 

[347] 


WHEN   IN   THE   NIGHT   WE   WAKE 
AND    HEAR    THE  RAIN 

BY  ROBERT   BURNS   WILSON 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain 
Like  myriad  merry  footfalls  on  the  grass, 
And,  on  the  roof,  the  friendly,  threatening  crash 
Of  sweeping,  cloud-sped  messengers,  that  pass 
Far  through  the  clamoring  night;   or  loudly  dash 
Against  the  rattling  windows;    storming,  still 
In  swift  recurrence,  each  dim-streaming  pane, 
Insistent  that  the  dreamer  wake,  within, 
And  dancing  in  the  darkness  on  the  sill: 
How  is  it,  then,  with  us  —  amidst  the  din, 

Recalled  from  Sleep's  dim,  vision-swept  domain  — 
When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain? 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain, 
Like  mellow  music,  comforting  the  earth; 
A  muffled,  half-elusive  serenade, 
Too  softly  sung  for  grief,  too  grave  for  mirth; 
Such  as  night-wandering  fairy  minstrels  made 
In  fabled,  happier  days;    while  far  in  space 
The  serious  thunder  rolls  a  deep  refrain, 
Jarring  the  forest,  wherein  Silence  makes 
Amidst  the  stillness  her  lone  dwelling-place; 
Then  in  the  soul's  sad  consciousness  awakes 
[348] 


Some  nameless  chord,  touched  by  that   haunting 

strain, 
When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain. 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain, 

And  from  blown  casements  see  the  lightning  sweep 

The  ocean's  breadth  with  instantaneous  fire, 

Dimpling  the  lingering  curve  of  waves  that  creep 

In  steady  tumult  —  waves  that  never  tire 

For  vexing,  night  and  day,  the  glistening  rocks, 

Firm-fixed  in  their  immovable  disdain 

Against  the  sea's  alternate  rage  and  play: 

Comes  there  not  something  on   the  wind  which 

mocks 
The  feeble  thoughts,  the  foolish  aims  that  sway 
Our  souls  with  hopes  of  unenduring  gain  — 
When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain? 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain 
Which  on  the  white  bloom  of  the  orchard  falls, 
And  on  the  young,  green  wheat-blades,  nodding 

now, 
And  on  the  half-turned  field,  where  thought  recalls 
How  in  the  furrow  stands  the  rusting  plow, 
Then  fancy  pictures  what  the  day  will  see  — 
The  ducklings  paddling  in  the  puddled  lane, 
Sheep  grazing  slowly  up  the  emerald  slope, 
Clear  bird-notes  ringing,  and  the  droning  bee 
Among  the  lilacs'  bloom  —  enchanting  hope  — 
How  fair  the  fading  dreams  we  entertain, 
When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain  I 

[349] 


When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain 
Which  falls  on  Summer's  ashes,  when  the  leaves 
Are  few  and  fading,  and  the  fields  forlorn 
No  more  remember  their  long-gathered  sheaves, 
Nor  aught  of  all  the  gladness  they  have  worn; 
When  melancholy  veils  the  misty  hills 
Where  somber  Autumn's  latest  glories  wane; 
Then  goes  the  soul  forth  where  the  sad  year  lays 
On  Summer's  grave  her  withered  gifts,  and  fills 
Her  urn  with  broken  memories  of  sweet  days  — 
Dear  days  which,  being  vanished,  yet  remain, 
When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain. 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  not  with  the  rain  — 
When  Silence,  like  a  watchful  shade,  will  keep 
Too  well  her  vigil  by  the  lonely  bed 
In  which  at  last  we  rest  in  quiet  sleep; 
While  from  the  sod  the  melted  snows  be  shed, 
And  Spring's  green  grass,  with  Summer's  ripening  sun, 
Grows  brown  and  matted  like  a  lion's  mane, 
How  will  it  be  with  us?     No  more  to  care 
Along  the  journeying  wind's  wild  path  to  run 
When  Nature's  voice  shall  call,  no  more  to  share 
Love's  madness  — ■  no  regret  —  no  longings  vain  — 
When  in  the  night  we  wake  not  with  the  rain. 


[35o] 


WYNKEN,  BLYNKEN,  AND   NOD1 

BY  EUGENE   FIELD 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe,  — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  crystal  light 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish?" 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring-fish 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we," 
Said  Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sang  a  song, 

As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe ; 
And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 

Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew; 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring-fish 

That  lived  in  the  beautiful  sea. 
"Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish,  — 
Never  afeard  are  we!" 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

^rom  "Poems  of    Childhood."     Copyright,    1904,   by   Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.     Used  by  permission. 

[351] 


All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 

To  the  stars  in  the  twinkling  foam,  — 
Then  down  from  the  skies  came  the  wooden  shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home: 
'Twas  all  so  pretty  a  sail,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be; 
And  some  folk  thought  'twas  a  dream  they'd  dreamed 
Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea; 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed; 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  Mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  on  the  misty  sea 
Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen  three,  — 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


[352 


LITTLE  BOY  BLUE1 

BY   EUGENE   FIELD 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 

But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands; 
And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust, 

And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 
Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new, 

And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair; 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

"Now  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said, 

"And  don't  you  make  any  noise!" 
So,  toddling  off  to  his  trundle-bed, 

He  dreamt  of  the  pretty  toys; 
And,  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 

Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue  — 
Oh !  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true! 

Ay,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 

Each  in  the  same  old  place, 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 

The  smile  of  a  little  face : 
And  they  wonder,  as  waiting  the  long  years  through 

In  the  dust  of  that  little  chair, 
What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue, 

Since  he  kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

^rom  "Poems  of  Childhood."     Copyright,    1904,   by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons.    Used  by  permission. 

[353] 


A  SONG  BEFORE  GRIEF 

BY  ROSE   HAWTHORNE   LATHROP 

Sorrow,  my  friend, 

When  shall  you  come  again? 

The  wind  is  slow,  and  the  bent  willows  send 

Their  silvery  motions  wearily  down  the  plain. 

The  bird  is  dead 

That  sang  this  morning  through  the  summer  rain! 

Sorrow,  my  friend, 
I  owe  my  soul  to  you. 
And  if  my  life  with  any  glory  end 
Of  tenderness  for  others,  and  the  words  are  true, 
Said,  honoring,  when  I'm  dead,  — 
Sorrow,  to  you  the  mellow  praise,  the  funeral  wreath, 
are  due. 

And  yet,  my  friend, 
When  love  and  joy  are  strong, 
Your  terrible  visage  from  my  sight  I  rend 
With  glances  to  blue  heaven.     Hovering  along, 
By  mine  your  shadow  led, 

"Away!"  I  shriek,  "nor  dare  to  work  my  new-sprung 
mercies  wrong!" 

Still,  you  are  near: 

Who  can  your  care  withstand? 

[354] 


When  deep  eternity  shall  look  most  clear, 
Sending  bright  waves  to  kiss  the  trembling  land, 
My  joy  shall  disappear,  — 

A  flaming  torch  thrown  to   the  golden  sea  by  your 
pale  hand. 


I  355  1 


THE  WALL   STREET  PIT 

BY  EDWIN  MARKHAM 

I  see  the  hell  of  faces  surge  and  whirl, 

Like  maelstrom  in  the  ocean  —  faces  lean 

And  fleshless  as  the  talons  of  a  hawk  — 

Hot  faces  like  the  faces  of  the  wolves 

That  track  the  traveler  fleeing  through  the  night  — 

Grim  faces  shrunken  up  and  fallen  in, 

Deep-plowed  like  weather-eaten  bark  of  oak  — 

Drawn  faces  like  the  faces  of  the  dead, 

Grown  suddenly  old  upon  the  brink  of  Earth. 

Is  this  a  whirl  of  madmen  ravening, 
And  blowing  bubbles  in  their  merriment? 
Is  Babel  come  again  with  shrieking  crew 
To  eat  the  dust  and  drink  the  roaring  wind? 
And  all  for  what?     A  handful  of  bright  sand 
To  buy  a  shroud  with  and  a  length  of  earth? 

Oh,  saner  are  the  hearts  on  stiller  ways ! 

Thrice  happier  they  who,  far  from  these  wild  hours. 

Grow  softly  as  the  apples  on  a  bough. 

Wiser  the  plowman  with  his  scudding  blade, 

Turning  a  straight  fresh  furrow  down  a  field  — 

Wiser  the  herdsman  whistling  to  his  heart, 

In  the  long  shadows  at  the  break  of  day  — 

Wiser  the  fisherman  with  quiet  hand, 

Slanting  his  sail  against  the  evening  wind. 

[356] 


The  swallow  sweeps  back  from  the  south  again, 
The  green  of  May  is  edging  all  the  boughs, 
The  shy  arbutus  glimmers  in  the  wood, 
And  yet  this  hell  of  faces  in  the  town  — 
This  storm  of  tongues,  this  whirlpool  roaring  on, 
Surrounded  by  the  quiets  of  the  hills; 
The  great  calm  stars  forever  overhead, 
And,  under  all,  the  silence  of  the  dead! 


[357] 


LITTLE    BROTHERS    OF    THE    GROUND 

BY  EDWIN  MARKHAM 

Little  ants  in  leafy  wood, 
Bound  by  gentle  Brotherhood, 
While  ye  gaily  spoil, 
Men  are  ground  by  the  wheel  of  toil; 
While  ye  follow  Blessed  Fates, 
Men  are  shriveled  up  with  hates; 
Or  they  lie  with  sheeted  Lust, 
And  they  eat  the  bitter  dust. 

Ye  are  fraters  in  your  hall, 
Gay  and  chainless,  great  and  small; 
All  are  toilers  in  the  field, 
All  are  sharers  in  the  yield. 
But  we  mortals  plot  and  plan 
How  to  grind  the  fellow-man; 
Glad  to  find  him  in  a  pit, 
If  we  get  some  gain  of  it. 
So  with  us,  the  sons  of  Time, 
Labor  is  a  kind  of  crime, 
For  the  toilers  have  the  least, 
While  the  idlers  lord  the  feast. 
Yes,  our  workers  they  are  bound, 
Pallid  captives  to  the  ground; 
Jeered  by  traitors,  fooled  by  knaves, 
Till  they  stumble  into  graves. 

How  appears  to  tiny  eyes 
All  this  wisdom  of  the  wise? 

1 358] 


THE  WISTFUL  DAYS 

BY  ROBERT   UNDERWOOD   JOHNSON 

What  is  there  wanting  in  the  Spring? 

Soft  is  the  air  as  yesteryear; 

The  happy-nested  green  is  here, 
And  half  the  world  is  on  the  wing. 

The  morning  beckons,  and  like  balm 

Are  westward  waters  blue  and  calm. 
Yet  something's  wanting  in  the  Spring. 

What  is  it  wanting  in  the  Spring? 
O  April,  lover  to  us  all, 
What  is  so  poignant  in  thy  thrall 

When  children's  merry  voices  ring? 
What  haunts  us  in  the  cooing  dove 
More  subtle  than  the  speech  of  Love, 

What  nameless  lack  or  loss  of  Spring? 

Let  Youth  go  dally  with  the  Spring, 
Call  her  the  dear,  the  fair,  the  young; 
And  all  her  graces  ever  sung 

Let  him,  once  more  rehearsing,  sing. 
They  know,  who  keep  a  broken  tryst, 
Till  something  from  the  Spring  be  missed 

We  have  not  truly  known  the  Spring. 


[359] 


HOME  AT  NIGHT1 

BY  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 

When  chirping  crickets  fainter  cry, 

And  pale  stars  blossom  in  the  sky, 

And  twilight's  gloom  has  dimmed  the  bloom 

And  blurred  the  butterfly : 

When  locust-blossoms  fleck  the  walk, 
And  up  the  tiger-lily  stalk 
The  glow-worm  crawls  and  clings  and  falls 
And  glimmers  down  the  garden  walls: 

When  buzzing  things,  with  double  wings 
Of  crisp  and  raspish  flutterings, 
Go  whizzing  by  so  very  nigh 
One  thinks  of  fangs  and  stings :  — 

Oh  then,  within,  is  stilled  the  din 
Of  crib  she  rocks  the  baby  in, 
And  heart  and  gate  and  latch's  weight 
Are  lifted  —  and  the  lips  of  Kate. 

1  From  "Green  Fields  and  Running  Brooks."     Copyright,   1892, 
The  Bobbs,  Merrill  Co.     Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers. 


[360] 


KNEE-DEEP   IN  JUNE1 

BY   JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 


Tell  you  what  I  like  the  best  — 
'Long  about  knee-deep  in  June, 

'Bout  the  time  strawberries  melts 
.  On  the  vine,  —  some  afternoon 
Like  to  jes'  git  out  and  rest, 

And  not  work  at  nothin'  else ! 

II 

Orchard's  where  I'd  ruther  be  — 
Needn't  fence  it  in  fer  me!  — 

Jes'  the  whole  sky  overhead, 
And  the  whole  airth  underneath  — 
Sorto'  so's  a  man  kin  breathe 

Like  he  ort,  and  kind  o'  has 
Elbow-room  to  keerlessly 

Sprawl  out  len'thways  on  the  grass 
Where  the  shadders  thick  and  soft 

As  the  kiwers  on  the  bed 
Mother  fixes  in  the  loft 
Alius,  when  they's  company! 

in 

Jes'  a-sort  o'  lazin'  there  — 
S'lazy,  'at  you  peek  and  peer 

1  From  "  Afterwhiles."     Copyright,  1887,  by  The  Bobbs-Merrill  Cc 
Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers. 

[361] 


Through  the  wavin'  leaves  above, 
Like  a  feller  'at's  in  love 
And  don't  know  it,  ner  don't  keer! 
Everything  you  hear  and  see 
Got  some  sorto'  interest  — 
Maybe  find  a  bluebird's  nest 
Tucked  up  there  conveneently 
Fer  the  boy  'at's  ap'  to  be 
Up  some  other  apple-tree! 
Watch  the  swallers  skootin'  past 
'Bout  as  peert  as  you  could  ast; 
Er  the  Bob- white  raise  and  whiz 
Where  some  other's  whistle  is. 

rv 

Kitch  a  shadder  down  below, 
And  look  up  to  find  the  crow  — 
Er  a  hawk,  —  away  up  there, 
'Pearantly  froze  in  the  air !  — 

Hear  the  old  hen  squawk,  and  squat 

Over  ever'  chick  she's  got, 
Suddent-like !  —  and  she  knows  where 

That-air  hawk  is,  well  as  you!  — 

You  jes'  bet  yer  life  she  do!  — 
Eyes  a-glitterin'  like  glass, 
Waitin'  till  he  makes  a  pass! 


Pee- wees'  singin',  to  express 

My  opinion,  's  second  class, 
Yit  you'll  hear  'em  more  er  less; 

[362] 


I 


Sapsucks  gittin'  down  to  biz, 
Weedin'  out  the  lonesomeness; 
Mr.  Blue  jay,  full  o'  sass, 

In  them  base-ball  clothes  o'  his. 
Sportin'  round  the  orchard  jes' 
Like  he  owned  the  premises! 

Sun  out  in  the  fields  kin  sizz, 
But  flat  on  yer'  back,  I  guess, 

In  the  shade's  where  glory  is! 
That's  jes'  what  I'd  like  to  do 
Stiddy  fer  a  year  er  two! 

VI 

Plague!  ef  they  ain't  somepin'  in 
Work  'at  kind  o'  goes  ag'in' 
My  convictions!  —  'long  about 
Here  in  June  especially !  - — 
Under  some  old  apple-tree, 

Jes'  a-restin'  through  and  through, 
I  could  git  along  without 
Nothin'  else  at  all  to  do 
Only  jes'  a-wishin'  you 
Wuz  a-gittin'  there  like  me, 
And  June  was  eternity! 

VTI 

Lay  out  there  and  try  to  see 
Es'  how  lazy  you  kin  be!  — 

Tumble  round  and  souse  yer  head 
In  the  clover-bloom,  er  pull 

Yer  straw  hat  acrost  yer  eyes 

[363] 


And  peek  through  it  at  the  skies, 
Thinkin'  of  old  chums  'at's  dead, 
Maybe,  smilin'  back  at  you 
In  betwixt  the  beautiful 

Clouds  o'  gold  and  white  and  blue !  — 
Month  a  man  kin  railly  love  — 
June,  you  know,  I'm  talkin'  of! 

VIII 

March  ain't  never  no  thin'  new!  —  . 
April's  altogether  too         • 

Brash  fer  me!  and  May  —  I  jes' 

'Bominate  its  promises,  — 
Little  hints  o'  sunshine  and 
Green  around  the  timber-land  — 

A  few  blossoms,  and  a  few 

Chip-birds,  and  a  sprout  er  two,  — 

Drap  asleep,  and  it  turns  in 

'Fore  daylight  and  snows  ag'in!  — 
But  when  June  comes  —  Clear  my  th'oat 

With  wild  honey !  —  Rench  my  hair 
In  the  dew !  and  hold  my  coat ! 

Whoop  out  loud!  and  th'ow  my  hat!  — 
June  wants  me,  and  I'm  to  spare! 
Spread  them  shadders  anywhere, 
I'll  git  down  and  waller  there, 

And  obleeged  to  you  at  that! 


[364] 


THE   GRASSHOPPER 

BY   EDITH  M.    THOMAS 

Shuttle  of  the  sunburnt  grass, 

Fifer  in  the  dun  cuirass, 

Fifing  shrilly  in'  the  morn, 

Shrilly  still  at  eve  unworn; 

Now  to  rear,  now  in  the  van, 

Gayest  of  the  elfin  clan: 

Though  I  watch  their  rustling  flight, 

I  can  never  guess  aright 

Where  their  lodging-places  are; 

'Mid  some  daisy's  golden  star, 

Or  beneath  a  roofing  leaf, 

Or  in  fringes  of  a  sheaf, 

Tenanted  as  soon  as  bound! 

Loud  thy  reveille  doth  sound, 

When  the  earth  is  laid  asleep, 

And  her  dreams  are  passing  deep, 

On  mid-August  afternoons; 

And  through  all  the  harvest  moons, 

Nights  brimmed  up  with  honeyed  peace, 

Thy  gainsaying  doth  not  cease. 

When  the  frost  comes,  thou  art  dead; 

We  along  the  stubble  tread, 

On  blue,  frozen  morns,  and  note 

No  least  murmur  is  afloat : 

Wondrous  still  our  fields  are  then, 

Fifer  of  the  elfin  men! 

[36s] 


THE  VESPER  SPARROW 

BY  EDITH  M.   THOMAS 

It  comes  from  childhood  land, 
Where  summer  days  are  long 

And  summer  eves  are  bland,  — 
A  lulling  good-night  song. 

Upon  a  pasture  stone, 

Against  the  fading  west, 
A  small  bird  sings  alone, 

Then  dives  and  finds  its  nest. 

The  evening  star  has  heard, 

And  flutters  into  sight; 
0  childhood's  vesper-bird, 

My  heart  calls  back,  Good-Night. 


366 


STRONG  AS  DEATH1 

BY  HENRY   CUYLER   BUNNER 

O  Death,  when  thou  shalt  come  to  me 
From  out  thy  dark,  where  she  is  now, 

Come  not  with  graveyard  smell  on  thee, 
Or  withered  roses  on  thy  brow. 

Come  not,  O  Death,  with  hollow  tone 
And  soundless  step,  and  clammy  hand  — 

Lo,  I  am  now  no  less  alone 

Than  in  thy  desolate,  doubtful  land; 

But  with  that  sweet  and  subtle  scent 
That  ever  clung  about  her  (such 

As  with  all  things  she  brushed  was  blent) ; 
And  with  her  quick  and  tender  touch. 

With  the  dim  gold  that  lit  her  hair, 

Crown  thyself,  Death;  let  fall  thy  tread 

So  light  that  I  may  dream  her  there, 
And  turn  upon  my  dying  bed. 

And  through  my  chilling  veins  shall  flame 
My  love,  as  though  beneath  her  breath; 

And  in  her  voice  but  call  my  name, 
And  I  will  follow  thee,  O  Death. 

1From  "  Poems  of  H.  C.  Bunner."     Copyright,   1884,   1899,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     Used  by  permission. 

[367] 


WILD   EDEN 

BY   GEORGE   EDWARD   WOODBERRY 

There  is  a  garden  enclosed 

In  the  high  places, 
But  never  hath  love  reposed 

In  its  bowery  spaces; 
And  the  cedars  there  like  shadows 

O'er  the  moonlit  champaign  stand 

Till  light  like  an  angel's  hand 
Touches  Wild  Eden. 

Who  told  me  the  name  of  the  garden 

That  lieth  remote,  apart, 
I  know  not,  nor  whence  was  the  music 

That  sang  it  into  my  heart; 
But  just  as  the  loud  robin  tosses 

His  notes  from  the  elm  tops  high, 
As  the  violets  come  in  the  mosses 

When  south  winds  wake  and  sigh, 
So  on  my  lips  I  found  it, 

This  name  that  is  made  my  cry. 

There,  under  the  stars  and  the  dawns 

Of  the  virginal  valleys, 
White  lilies  flood  the  low  lawns, 

And  the  rose  lights  the  alleys; 
But  never  are  heard  there  the  voices 

[368] 


That  sweeten  on  lovers'  lips, 
And  the  wild  bee  never  sips 
Sweets  of  Wild  Eden. 

But  who  hath  shown  me  the  vision 

Of  the  roses  and  lilies  in  ranks 
I  would  that  I  knew,  that  forever 

To  him  I  might  render  thanks; 
For  a  maiden  grows  there  in  her  blossom, 

In  the  place  of  her  maidenhood, 
Nor  knows  how  her  virgin  bosom 

Is  stored  with  the  giving  of  good, 
For  the  truth  is  hidden  from  her 

That  of  love  is  understood. 

No  bird  with  his  mate  there  hovers, 

Nor  beside  her  has  trilled  or  sung; 
No  bird  in  the  dewy  covers 

Has  built  a  nest  for  his  young; 
And  over  the  dark-leaved  mountains 

The  voice  in  the  laurel  sleeps; 

And  the  moon  broods  on  the  deeps 
Shut  in  Wild  Eden. 

0  Love,  if  thou  in  thy  hiding 

Art  he  who  above  me  stands, 
If  thou  givest  wings  to  my  spirit, 

If  thou  art  my  heart  and  my  hands,  — 
Through  the  morn,  through  the  noon,  through   the 
even 

That  burns  with  thy  planet  of  light, 

[369] 


Through  the  moonlit  space  of  heaven, 

Guide  thou  my  flight 
Till,  star-like  on  the  dark  garden, 

I  fall  in  the  night  I 

Fly,  song  of  my  bosom,  unto  it 

Whenever  the  earth  breathes  spring; 
Though  a  thousand  years  were  to  rue  it, 

Such  a  heart  beats  under  thy  wing, 
Thou  shalt  dive,  thou  shalt  soar,  thou  shalt  find  it, 

And  forever  my  life  be  blest, 

Such  a  heart  beats  in  my  breast,  — 
Fly  to  Wild  Eden. 


[  37o  ] 


GOD'S   GIFT1 

BY  ERNEST   CROSBY 

"  Where  is  my  gift,"  said  God,  "  that  I  gave  to  men  — 
The  sun-wed,  fruitful  earth,  with  her  freight  of  good 
For  all  their  wants?     What  mean  these  prayers  for 

food? 
Are  there  poor  in  a  world  which  bursts  with  its  golden 

stores? 
Who  are  the  few  that  dare  to  withhold  from  all 
My  gift  to  all  of  the  fruitful,  sun- wed  earth?" 

And  the  few  replied:  "0  Lord,  we  give  Thee  thanks. 
Thou  gavest  the  earth  to  all,  it  is  true,  but  lo! 
Thy  angels,  Law  and  Order,  who  rule  the  world 
When  Thou  art  far  away,  have  learned  our  worth, 
And  rightly  bestowed  on  us  Thine  inheritance." 

"I  know  them  not,"  said  God;  "  they  are  fiends  from 

hell 
That  juggle  thus  with  the  gift  that  I  gave  to  man. 
I  am  never  far  away  from  the  world  I  gave. 
And  now  once  more  and  forevermore  I  give 
This  fruitful  earth  anew  to  the  sons  of  men. 
Woe  to  the  fiends  who  shall  dare  usurp  my  place ! 
Woe  to  the  few  who  say  that  my  gift  is  theirs! 
Woe  to  the  man  who  grasps  his  neighbor's  land!" 

[371] 


SOLITUDE 

BY  ELLA   WHEELER  WILCOX 

Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you; 

Weep,  and  you  weep  alone, 
For  the  sad  old  earth  must  borrow  its  mirth, 

But  has  trouble  enough  of  its  own. 
Sing,  and  the  hills  will  answer; 

Sigh,  it  is  lost  on  the  air, 
The  echoes  bound  to  a  joyful  sound, 

But  shrink  from  voicing  care. 

Rejoice,  and  men  will  seek  you; 

Grieve,  and  they  turn  and  go. 
They  want  full  measure  of  all  your  pleasure, 

But  they  do  not  need  your  woe. 
Be  glad,  and  your  friends  are  many; 

Be  sad,  and  you  lose  them  all,  — 
There  are  none  to  decline  your  nectar'd  wine, 

But  alone  you  must  drink  life's  gall. 

Feast,  and  your  halls  are  crowded; 

Fast,  and  the  world  goes  by. 
Succeed  and  give,  and  it  helps  you  live, 

But  no  man  can  help  you  die. 
There  is  room  in  the  halls  of  pleasure 

For  a  large  and  lordly  train, 
But  one  by  one  we  must  all  file  on 

Through  the  narrow  aisles  of  pain. 

[372] 


YOU  AND   TO-DAY 

BY  ELLA   WHEELER  WILCOX 

With  every  rising  of  the  sun 
Think  of  your  life  as  just  begun. 

The  past  has  shrived  and  buried  deep 
Ail  yesterdays  —  there  let  them  sleep. 

Nor  seek  to  summon  back  one  ghost 
Of  that  innumerable  host. 

Concern  yourself  with  but  to-day. 
Woo  it  and  teach  it  to  obey 

Your  wish  and  will.     Since  time  began 
To-day  has  been  the  friend  of  man. 

But  in  his  blindness  and  his  sorrow 
He  looks  to  yesterday  and  to-morrow. 

You  and  to-day!  a  soul  sublime 
And  the  great  pregnant  hour  of  time. 

With  God  between  to  bind  the  train  — 
Go  forth  I  say  —  attain  —  attain. 


[373] 


CANDLEMAS 

BY  ALICE   BROWN 

O  hearken,  all  ye  little  weeds 

That  lie  beneath  the  snow. 

(So  low,  dear  hearts,  in  poverty  so  low!) 

The  sun  hath  risen  for  royal  deeds, 

A  valiant  wind  the  vanguard  leads; 

Now  quicken  ye,  lest  unborn  seeds 

Before  ye  rise  and  blow. 

0  furry  living  things,  a-dream 

On  Winter's  drowsy  breast, 
(How  rest  ye  there,  how  softly,  safely  rest!) 
Arise  and  follow  where  a  gleam 
Of  wizard  gold  unbinds  the  stream, 
And  all  the  woodland  windings  seem 

With  sweet  expectance  blest. 

My  birds,  come  back!     The  hollow  sky 

Is  weary  for  your  note. 
(Sweet- throat,  come  back!     O  liquid,  mellow  throat!) 
Ere  May's  soft  minions  hereward  fly. 
Shame  on  ye,  laggards,  to  deny 
The  brooding  breast,  the  sun-bright  eye, 

The  tawny,  shining  coat! 


[374  I 


IN  EXTREMIS 

BY   ALICE   BROWN 

Not  from  the  pestilence  and  storm,  — 
Fate's  creeping  brood,  —  the  crouching  form 
Of  dread  disease,  and  image  dire 
Of  wrack  and  loss,  of  flood  and  fire; 
Not  from  the  poisoned  fangs  of  hate, 
Or  death-worm  born  to  be  my  mate, 
But  from  the  fear  that  such  things  be, 
O  Lord,  deliver  me! 

Fear  dogs  the  shadow  at  my  side; 
Fear  doth  my  wingless  soul  bestride. 
In  the  lone  stillness  of  the  night 
His  whisper  doth  mine  ear  affright; 
His  formless  shape  mine  eye  appals; 
Under  his  touch  my  body  crawls. 
Now  from  his  loathsome  mastery, 
O  Lord,  deliver  me! 

I  would  not  loose  me,  if  I  might, 
From  touch,  or  sound,  or  taste,  or  sight 
Of  all  life's  dread  revealing.     Nay, 
Were  I  God's  angel  I  would  stay 
Here  on  this  clod  of  crucial  grief, 
And  learn  my  rede  without  relief; 
But  from  this  basest  empery 
And  last,  I  would  be  free. 

[375] 


My  fiend  hath  poisoned  even  the  cup 
Of  faith  and  love :  I  may  not  sup 
But  horror  grins  within  the  bowl, 
And  spectre  guests  affright  my  soul. 
Yea,  and  the  awful  Sisters  Three, 
Spinning  the  web  eternity, 
Have  lost  their  solemn  state,  and  wear 
The  Furies'  snake-bound  hair. 

Out  of  the  jaws  of  hell  and  night 
Lead  my  sick  soul,  O  Sovereign  Light! 
Let  me  tread  shivering  through  the  cold, 
Despised,  forsaken,  hunted,  old, 
Unloved,  unwept,  beneath  the  ban 
Of  sharpest  anguish  laid  on  man; 
But  from  the  monster  foul  I  flee, 
0  God,  deliver  me! 


376] 


A  PLANTATION  DITTY1 

BY   FRANK   LEBBY   STANTON 

De  gray  owl  sing  fum  de  chimbly  top: 

"Who  —  who  —  is  —  you-oo?  " 
En  I  say:  "Good  Lawd,  hit's  des  po'  me. 
En  I  ain't  quite  ready  fer  de  Jasper  Sea; 
I'm  po'  en  sinful,  en  you  'lowed  I'd  be; 

Oh,  wait,  good  Lawd,  'twell  ter-morror!" 

De  gray  owl  sing  fum  de  cypress- tree : 

"Who  —  who  —  is  —  you-oo?  " 
En  I  say:  "Good  Lawd,  ef  you  look  you'll  see 
Hit  ain't  nobody  but  des  po'  me, 
En  I  like  ter  stay  'twell  my  time  is  free; 

Oh,  wait,  good  Lawd,  'twell  ter-morror!" 

1From  "  Comes  One  with  a  Song,"  by  Frank  L.  Stanton.  Copy- 
right, 1898.  Used  by  special  permission  of  the  publishers,  The 
Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


[377 


THE   GRAVEYARD  RABBIT 

BY  FRANK   LEBBY   STANTON 

In  the  white  moonlight,  where  the  willow  waves, 
He  halfway  gallops  among  the  graves  — 
A  tiny  ghost  in  the  gloom  and  gleam, 
Content  to  dwell  where  the  dead  men  dream, 

But  wary  still! 

For  they  plot  him  ill; 

For  the  graveyard  rabbit  hath  a  charm 

(May  God  defend  us !)  to  shield  from  harm. 

Over  the  shimmering  slabs  he  goes  — 
Every  grave  in  the  dark  he  knows; 
But  his  nest  is  hidden  from  human  eye 
Where  headstones  broken  on  old  graves  He. 

Wary  still! 

For  they  plot  him  ill; 

For  the  graveyard  rabbit,  though  skeptics  scoff, 

Charmeth  the  witch  and  the  wizard  off ! 

The  black  man  creeps,  when  the  night  is  dim, 

Fearful,  still,  on  the  track  of  him; 

Or  fleetly  follows  the  way  he  runs, 

For  he  heals  the  hurts  of  the  conjured  ones. 

[378] 


Wary  still! 

For  they  plot  him  ill; 

The  soul's  bewitched  that  would  find  release,  — 

To  the  graveyard  rabbit  go  for  peace ! 

He  holds  their  secret  —  he  brings  a  boon 
Where  winds  moan  wild  in  the  dark  o'  the  moon; 
And  gold  shall  glitter  and  love  smile  sweet 
To  whoever  shall  sever  his  furry  feet! 

Wary  still! 

For  they  plot  him  ill; 

For  the  graveyard  rabbit  hath  a  charm 

(May  God  defend  us !)  to  shield  from  harm. 


[379] 


DE  SHEEPFOL' 

SARAH  PRATT  MCLEAN  GREEN 

De  massa  ob  de  sheepfol', 
Dat  guards  de  sheepfol'  bin, 
Look  out  in  de  gloomerin'  meadows, 
Wha'r  de  long  night  rain  begin  — 
So  he  call  to  de  hirelin'  shepa'd, 
"Is  my  sheep,  is  dey  all  come  in?" 

Oh,  den  says  de  hirelin'  shepa'd: 
"Dey's  some,  dey's  black  and  thin, 
And  some,  dey's  po'  ol'  wedda's; 
But  de  res',  dey's  all  brung  in. 
But  de  res',  dey's  all  brung  in." 

Den  de  massa  ob  de  sheepfol', 
Dat  guards  de  sheepfol'  bin, 
Goes  down  in  de  gloomerin'  meadows, 
Wha'r  de  long  night  rain  begin  — 
So  he  le'  down  de  ba's  ob  de  sheepfol', 
Callin'  sof,  "Come  in.     Come  in." 
Callin'  sof,  "Come  in.     Come  in." 

Den  up  t'ro'  de  gloomerin'  meadows, 
T'ro'  de  col'  night  rain  and  win', 
And  up  t'ro'  de  gloomerin'  rain-paf, 
Wha'r  de  sleet  fa'  pie'cin'  thin, 

[380] 


De  po'  los'  sheep  ob  de  sheepfoP, 
Dey  all  comes  gadderin'  in. 
De  po'  los  'sheep  ob  de  sheepfol', 
Dey  all  comes  gadderin'  in. 


[381] 


THE   CRICKET 


BY  JAMES   B.    KENYON 

Piper  of  the  fields  and  woods 
And  the  fragrant  solitudes, 
When  the  trees  are  stripped  of  leaves, 
And  the  choked  brook  sobs  and  grieves; 
When  the  golden-rod  alone 
Feigns  the  summer  hath  not  flown; 
Then  while  evening  airs  grow  chill, 
And  the  flocks  upon  the  hill 
Huddle  in  the  waning  light, 
Thou,  ere  falls  the  frosty  night, 
To  the  kine  that  homeward  pass 
Pipest  'mid  the  stiffening  grass. 
Dark  may  dawn  the  winter  days,  — 
Where  thou  art  the  summer  stays; 
Though  the  ruffian  north  winds  roar, 
Lash  the  roof  and  smite  the  door, 
Thou  from  hearths  secure  and  warm 
Laughest  at  the  brewing  storm, 
And  thy  merry  minstrelsy 
Sets  the  frozen  fancy  free. 
Dost  thou  dream,  O  piper  brave, 
That  from  his  sea-haunted  grave 
He  who  praised  thy  song  of  yore 
Hath  come  back  to  hear  once  more, 
Through  high  noons,  thy  strident  strain 

[382] 


Borne  o'er  Enna's  saffron  plain? 
Long,  long  since  the  nectared  hoard 
That  the  yellow  bees  had  stored 
In  the  turf  above  thy  head 
Hath,  by  many  a  passing  tread 
O'er  the  chamber  of  his  sleep, 
In  the  dust  been  .trampled  deep. 
From  his  lentisk  couch  of  rest, 
In  his  shaggy  goat-skin  vest, 
He  shall  rise  no  more  to  hear, 
With  the  poet's  raptured  ear, 
O'er  the  thymy  pastures  swell 
Morning  sounds  he  loved  so  well. 
Other  skies  are  over  us, 
And  afar  Theocritus 
Slumbers  deep,  0  piper  small, 
And  he  will  not  heed  at  all 
Though  be  struck  thy  shrillest  notes; 
Yet  a  voice  like  thine  still  floats 
O'er  him  where  thy  shy  kin  be 
'Mid  the  dews  of  Sicily. 


[383] 


WHEN  CLOVER  BLOOMS 

BY  JAMES  B.   KENYON 

When  clover  blooms  in  the  meadows, 

And  the  happy  south  winds  blow; 
When  under  the  leafy  shadows 
The  singing  waters  flow  — 
Then  come  to  me;  as  you  pass 
I  shall  hear  your  feet  in  the  grass, 
And  my  heart  shall  awake  and  leap 
From  its  cool  dark  couch  of  sleep, 
And  shall  thrill  again  as  of  old, 
Ere  its  long  rest  under  the  mold  — 
When  clover  blooms. 

Deem  not  that  I  shall  not  waken; 

I  shall  know,  my  Love,  it  is  you; 
I  shall  feel  the  tall  grass  shaken, 
I  shall  hear  the  drops  of  the  dew 
That  scatter  before  your  feet; 
I  shall  smell  the  perfume  sweet 
Of  the  red  rose  that  you  wear, 
As  of  old,  in  your  sunny  hair; 
Deem  not  that  I  shall  not  know 
It  is  your  light  feet  that  go 
'Mid  clover  blooms. 

0  Love,  the  years  have  parted  — 
The  long,  long  years!  —  our  ways; 

[384] 


You  have  gone  with  the  merry-hearted 
These  many  and  many  days, 
And  I  with  that  grim  guest 
Who  loveth  the  silence  best. 
But  come  to  me  —  I  shall  wait 
For  your  coming,  soon  or  late, 
For  soon  or  late,  I  know 
You  shall  come  to  my  rest  below 
The  clover  blooms. 


tsssl 


FATHER  TO   MOTHER1 

BY   ROBERT   BRIDGES 

This  is  our  child,  Dear  —  flesh  of  our  flesh  and  bone 

of  our  bone; 
Here  is  the  end  of  our  youth,  and  now  we  begin  to 

atone. 
Now  we  do  feel  what  their  love  was  —  those  who  have 

reared  us  and  taught; 
Now  do  we  know  of  the  treasures  that  neither  are  sold 

nor  bought. 
Here  is  the  joy  of  the  Race  —  joy  that  must  grow  out 

of  pain; 
Here  is  the  last  of  our  Self  —  now  we  are  links  in  the 

chain. 
Body  of  yours  and  mine  no  more  is  the  measure  of 

grief  — 
All  that  he  suffers  is  ours  —  and  increased  while  we 

cry  for  relief ; 
Yea,  for  our  boy,  our  Beloved,  we'll  yearn  through  the 

beckoning  years  — 
Toil  for  him,  laugh  with  him,  struggle,  and  pour  out 

the  fountain  of  tears ! 

^rom  "  Bramble  Brae."     Copyright,  1902,  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


386 


TO  A  FRIEND   DYING 

BY   ROBERT   BRIDGES 

They  tell  you  that  Death's  at  the  turn  of  the  road, 
That  under  the  shade  of  a  cypress  you'll  find  him, 

And  struggling  on  wearily,  lashed  by  the  goad 

Of  pain,  you  will  enter  the  black  mist  behind  him. 

I  can  walk  with  you  up  to  the  ridge  of  the  hill, 

And  we'll  talk  of  the  way  we  have  come  through  the 
valley; 

Down  below  there  a  bird  breaks  into  a  trill, 

And  a  groaning  slave  bends  to  the  oar  of  his  galley. 

You  are  up  on  the  heights  now,  you  pity  the  slave  — 
"Poor  soul,  how  fate  lashes  him  on  at  his  rowing! 

Yet  it's  joyful  to  live,  and  it's  hard  to  be  brave 
When  you  watch  the  sun  sink  and  the  daylight  is 
going." 

We  are  almost  there  —  our  last  walk  on  this  height — 
I  must  bid  you  good-by  at  that  cross  on  the  moun- 
tain. 

See  the  sun  glowing  red,  and  the  pulsating  light 
Fill  the  valley,  and  rise  like  the  flood  in  a  fountain! 

And  it  shines  in  your  face  and  illumines  your  soul; 
We  are  comrades  as  ever,  right  here  at  your  going; 

[387] 


You  may  rest  if  you  will  within  sight  of  the  goal, 
While  I  must  return  to  my  oar  and  the  rowing. 

We  must  part  now?    Well,  here  is  the  hand  of  a 
friend; 
I  will  keep  you  in  sight  till  the  road  makes  its 
turning 
Just  over  the  ridge  within  reach  of  the  end 

Of  your  arduous  toil  —  the  beginning  of  learning. 

You  will  call  to  me  once  from  the  mist,  on  the  verge, 
"Au  revoir!"  and  "good  night!"  while  the  twilight 
is  creeping 
Up  luminous  peaks,  and  the  pale  stars  emerge? 

Yes,  I  hear  your  faint  voice:  "This  is  rest,  and  like 
sleeping!" 


[3*8] 


■HI 


THE  FOUR  WINDS1 

BY  CHARLES  HENRY  LUDERS 

Wind  of  the  North, 

Wind  of  the  Norland  snows, 

Wind  of  the  winnowed  skies,  and  sharp,  clear  stars, — 

Blow  cold  and  keen  across  the  naked  hills, 

And  crisp  the  lowland  pools  with  crystal  films, 

And  blur  the  casement  squares  with  glittering  ice, 

But  go  not  near  my  love. 

Wind  of  the  West, 

Wind  of  the  few,  far  clouds, 

Wind  of  the  gold  and  crimson  sunset  lands,  — 

Blow  fresh  and  pure  across  the  peaks  and  plains, 

And  broaden  the  blue  spaces  of  the  heavens, 

And  sway  the  grasses  and  the  mountain  pines, 

But  let  my  dear  one  rest. 

Wind  of  the  East, 

Wind  of  the  sunrise  seas, 

Wind  of  the  clinging  mists  and  gray,  harsh  rains,  — 

Blow  moist  and  chill  across  the  wastes  of  brine, 

And  shut  the  sun  out,  and  the  moon  and  stars, 

And  lush  the  boughs  against  the  dripping  eaves, 

Yet  keep  thou  from  my  love. 

But  thou,  sweet  wind! 

Wind  of  the  fragrant  South, 

^rom    "The  Dead  Nymph   and   Other    Poems."    Copyright, 
1891,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

[389] 


Wind  from  the  bowers  of  jasmine  and  of  rose,  — 

Over  magnolia  blooms  and  lilied  lakes 

And  flowering  forests  come  with  dewy  wings, 

And  stir  the  petals  at  her  feet,  and  kiss 

The  low  mound  where  she  lies. 


[390] 


. 


EACH  IN  HIS  OWN  TONGUE 

BY  WILLIAM  HERBERT  CARRUTH 

A  fire-mist  and  a  planet, 

A  crystal  and  a  cell; 
A  jelly-fish  and  a  saurian, 

And  caves  where  the  cave-men  dwell; 
Then  a  sense  of  law  and  beauty, 

And  a  face  turned  from  the  clod  — 
Some  call  it  Evolution, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, 

The  infinite,  tender  sky; 
The  ripe,  rich  tints  on  the  cornfields, 

And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high; 
And  all  over  upland  and  lowland 

The  charm  of  the  golden-rod; 
Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

Like  the  tide  on  the  crescent  sea-beach, 

When  the  moon  is  new  and  thin, 
Into  our  hearts  high  yearnings 

Come  welling  and  surging  in  — 
Come  from  the  mystic  ocean 

Whose  rim  no  foot  has  trod  — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Longing, 

And  others  call  it  God. 

[39i] 


A  picket  frozen  on  duty, 

A  mother  starved  for  her  brood, 
Socrates  drinking  his  hemlock, 

And  Christ  on  the  rood; 
The  million  who,  humble  and  nameless. 

The  straight,  hard  pathway  trod  — 
Some  call  it  Consecration, 

And  others  call  it  God. 


[392] 


THANKSGIVING 

BY   KATHARINE   LEE   BATES 

To  give  God  thanks  when  brief,  oblivious  nights 
The  tranquil  eve  and  blithesome  morning  part, 

Easy  as  bird-song  that.     But  how  when  smites 
The  mace  of  sorrow,  stings  the  malice-dart? 
Ah,  unbelieving  heart! 

To  give  God  thanks  in  words  —  this  is  not  hard; 

But  incense  of  the  spirit  —  to  distill 
From  hour  to  hour  the  cassia  and  the  nard 

Of  fragrant  life,  his  praises  to  fulfil? 
Alas,  inconstant  will! 


[393] 


THE  FELLOWSHIP 

BY   KATHARINE   LEE   BATES 

When  brambles  vex  me  sore  and  anguish  me, 
Then  I  remember  those  pale  martyr  feet 

That  trod  on  burning  shares  and  drank  the  heat, 
As  it  had  been  God's  dew,  with  ecstasy. 

And  when  some  evanescent  sunset  glow 
Renews  the  beauty-sting,  I  set  my  pride 

On  that  great  fellowship  of  those  who  know 
The  artist's  yearning,  yet  are  self-denied. 

Feast  me  no  feasts  that  for  the  few  are  spread, 
With  holy  cup  of  brotherhood  ungraced, 

For  though  I  sicken  at  my  daily  bread, 
Bitter  and  black,  I  crave  the  human  taste. 


[394 


THE  CLAIM  OF  KINDRED1 

BY   RICHARD   BURTON 

I  am  not  one,  but  many:  murmuring  through 
My  blood  I  seem  to  hear  a  blended  cry, 

Ancestral-strong,  bidding  me  up  and  do 
A  million  deeds  before  I  come  to  die. 

Some  of  the  voices  call  like  organ  tones 
Upon  my  soul  for  service  that  is  meet; 

Others  unman  me  with  melodious  moans 
Or  evil  invitations  perilous  —  sweet. 

Some  tell  of  high  endeavor  on  the  seas, 
Some,  bugle-clear,  declare  that  war  is  best; 

Some  lull  me  to  a  dream  of  summer  ease 
In  far-away,  fair  places  where  is  rest. 

Betwixt  high  heaven  and  hell  the  ample  air 

Thrills    with    their    pleadings,    vibrates    to    their 
breath; 

Deep  in  my  heart  I  feel  their  vast  despair, 
Their  every  hope,  their  game  of  life  and  death. 

It  is  as  though  a  countless  company 

Drew  a  great  circle  round  me,  and  did  press 

Their  myriad  claims  nor  would  not  let  me  be 
Until  unto  them  all  I  answered,  Yes. 

1  From  "  Message  and  Melody."    Copyright,  1903  by  Lothrop,  Lee 
&  Shepard  Co. 

[395] 


I  am  not  one,  but  many;  all  the  past 

Houses  within  my  breast  and  summons  me; 

And  only  God  shall  speak  the  word  at  last 
To  quell  the  storm  and  give  the  mastery. 

Since  thus,  despite  my  cherished  pride  of  will, 
The  passions  of  my  kindred  clasp  me  still. 


[396] 


SONG  OF  THE  UNSUCCESSFUL1 

BY  RICHARD   BURTON 

We  are  the  toilers  from  whom  God  barred 

The  gifts  that  are  good  to  hold. 
We  meant  full  well  and  we  tried  full  hard, 

And  our  failures  were  manifold. 

And  we  are  the  clan  of  those  whose  kin 
Were  a  millstone  dragging  them  down. 

Yea,  we  had  to  sweat  for  our  brother's  sin, 
And  lose  the  victor's  crown. 

The  seeming-able,  who  all  but  scored, 
From  their  teeming  tribe  we  come: 

What  was  there  wrong  with  us,  O  Lord, 
That  our  lives  were  dark  and  dumb? 

The  men  ten-talented,  who  still 

Strangely  missed  of  the  goal, 
Of  them  we  are:  it  seems  thy  will 

To  harrow  some  in  soul. 

We  are  the  sinners,  too,  whose  lust 

Conquered  the  higher  claims; 
We  sat  us  prone  in  the  common  dust, 

And  played  at  the  devil's  games. 

We  are  the  hard-luck  folk,  who  strove 
Zealously,  but  in  vain : 

1  From  "  Message  and  Melody."   Copyright,  1903,  by  Lothrop,  Lee 
&  Shepard  Co. 

[397] 


We  lost  and  lost,  while  our  comrades  throve, 
And  still  we  lost  again. 

We  are  the  doubles  of  those  whose  way 
Was  festal  with  fruits  and  flowers; 

Body  and  brain  we  were  sound  as  they, 
But  the  prizes  were  not  ours. 

A  mighty  army  our  full  ranks  make, 

We  shake  the  graves  as  we  go; 
The  sudden  stroke  and  the  slow  heartbreak, 

They  both  have  brought  us  low. 

And  while  we  are  laying  life's  sword  aside, 

Spent  and  dishonored  and  sad, 
Our  epitaph  this,  when  once  we  have  died : 

"The  weak  lie  here,  and  the  bad." 

We  wonder  if  this  can  be  really  the  close, 
Life's  fever  cooled  by  death's  trance; 

And  we  cry,  though  it  seem  to  our  dearest  of  foes, 
"God,  give  us  another  chance!  " 


I 


[398] 


THE    SPRING  BEAUTIES 

BY  HELEN,  GRAY   CONE 

The  Puritan  Spring  Beauties  stood  freshly  clad  for 

church; 
A  thrush,  white-breasted,  o'er  them  sat  singing  on 

his  perch. 
"Happy  be!   for  fair  are  ye!"  the  gentle  singer  told 

them, 
But  presently  a  buff-coat  bee  came  booming  up  to 
scold  them. 

" Vanity,  oh,  vanity! 
Young  maids,  beware  of  vanity!" 
Grumbled  out  the  buff-coat  bee, 
Half  parson-like,  half  soldierly. 

The  sweet-faced  maidens  trembled,  with  pretty,  pinky 

blushes, 
Convinced  that  it  was  wicked  to  listen  to  the  thrushes; 
And  when  that  shady  afternoon,  I  chanced  that  way 

to  pass, 
They  hung  their  little  bonnets  down  and  looked  into 
the  grass. 
All  because  the  buff-coat  bee 
Lectured  them  so  solemnly :  — 
"Vanity,  oh,  vanity! 
Young  maids,  beware  of  vanity!" 

[399] 


HONEYSUCKLES 

BY  FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN 

Within  a  belfry  built  of  bloom, 
Above  the  garden  wall  they  swing; 
A  chime  of  bells  for  winds  to  ring, 

Of  mingled  music  and  perfume. 

What  scented  syllables  of  song 

Throughout  the  day  their  tongues  repeat! 

They  tempt  with  promise,  honey-sweet, 
The  listener  to  linger  long. 

A  bit  of  sunset  cloud  astray, 

The  dappled  butterfly  floats  near, 
Lured  by  the  fragrant  music  clear, 

Trembles  with  joy,  then  fades  away. 

And  thither  oft,  from  time  to  time, 
The  humming-bird  and  golden  bee, 
List,  and  go  mad  with  melody,  — 

The  honey-music  of  the  chime. 

And  thither  when  the  silver  gleam 

Of  moon  and  stars  is  over  all, 

One  white  moth  hovers  near  the  wall,  — 
A  ghost  to  haunt  the  garden's  dream ! 

[400] 


SONG  OF  THE  SHIPS 

BY    CLINTON    SCOLLARD 

The  great  ships  go  a-shouldering 

Along  my  line  of  shore; 
The  little  ships  like  sea-gulls  fly 
Under  the  blue  tent  of  the  sky, 
And  some  will  lie  a-mouldering, 
Where  phosphor  lights  are  smouldering, 

And  sail  no  more,  no  more! 

Spruce  and  trig 

Is  yon  bounding  brig;  — 

"  Whither  away,  my  master  ?  " 
"O  just  for  a  bit  of  a  jaunty  trip, 
From  the  lazy  ooze  of  Salem  slip 
To  where  the  long  tides  roar  and  rip 
Round  the  coral  keys 
Of  the  outer  seas, 

And  the  combers  cry  'disaster!' 
Out  and  up  with  the  topsail  there ! 
There's  plenty  of  God's  free  briny  air 

To  crowd  her  a  little  faster !" 

Ah,  like  a  lark 
Dips  yonder  bark, — 

Poises  and  dips  and  rises! 
"Whither  away?" 
"To  the  clear  blue  day, 
[401  ] 


And  the  Lost  Lagoon 
Where  the  flame  of  noon 

Is  full  of  rapt  surprises, 
And  the  tropic  moon 
As  it  swings  a-swoon, 

Entangles  and  entices." 

It's  " Champ!     champ!     champ!" 
Goes  the  wheezy  tramp, 

With  her  funnels  low  and  raky; 
"Whither  away ? "     "Well,  the  good  Lord  knows 
WThere  we'll  land  if  it  up  and  blows, 
For  the  keel  is  foul  (that's  one  of  our  woes), 

And  the  screw  is  mighty  shaky; 
But  we'll  weather  to  port  although  it  be 
Under  the  gray-green  roof  of  the  sea, 
And  we'll  warp  to  the  pier 
With  a  rouse  of  cheer 

Though  queer  be  the  pier  and  quaky." 

Like  an  arrowy  shaft 
From  fore  to  aft 

Onward  urges  the  liner; 
"Whither  away  ? "     Strong  comes  the  hail  — 
"O'er  creamy  crest  and  o'er  beryl  vale 
To  the  gates  of  the  Ultimate  East  we  sail 
Where  the  rose  abides  and  the  nightingale 

Sits  caroling  —  none  diviner. 
A  myriad  hopes  —  not  a  wraith  of  doubt  — 
Throb  between  our  decks  as  we  hurtle  out; 
And  the  mind  and  the  shaping  hand  of  man, 
[402] 


Since  the  ancient  surge  of  Time  began, 
Ne'er  fashioned  a  splendor  finer." 

With  sparkling  spar 
Glides  the  man-o'-war, 

Her  great-gunned  turrets  towering; 
"Whither  away?"     "To  the  verge  of  earth 
To  guard  the  rights  of  the  free  of  birth, 
And  give  them  a  taste  of  our  Yankee  mirth 

Wherever  the  foe  be  lowering; 
And  should  it  come  to  the  last  appeal, 
To  the  cruel  chrism  of  fire  and  steel, 
Be  it  man  on  bridge,  in  hold,  at  wheel, 

There'll  be  no  caitiff  cowering!" 

And  so  the  ships  go  shouldering 

Along  my  line  of  shore, 
And  whether  they  dare  the  threat  of  the  Horny 
Or  make  for  the  Golden  Isles  of  Morn, 
Under  the  sapphire  tent  of  sky, 
Some  will  range  back  by  and  by. 
And  some  will  lie  a-mouldering, 
Where  phosphor  lights  are  smouldering, 

And  sail  no  more,  no  more! 


[403] 


THE  THRALL 

BY    CLINTON    SCOLLARD 

Aloof,  I  heard 

The  rise  and  dip  note  of  the  oven-bird, 

Word  upon  buoyant  word, 

Rapt  music,  blithe. as  is  the  blossoming 

Of  frail  hepaticas,  trills  dropped  a-wing, 

Or  from  a  bough  a-swing 

In  the  warm  lyric  south-wind.     Little  leaves 

Rippled  in  soft  green  laughter.     Belted  thieves, 

Bent  upon  honey-plunder,  made  fleet  chase 

From  bloom  to  bloom, — 

The  cloud- white  trillium  and  squirrel's-corn, 

The  seal-o'-Solomon,  golden  as  the  morn, — 

With  breezy  boom, 

Or  low  and  dreamy  bass. 

Then  swift  I  said, 

Of  all  earth's  loveliness  enamored, 

"Here  is  my  place! 

Here  will  I  linger  and  gain  lasting  grace 

From  all  this  sweet  renewal,  —  the  old  lure 

Of  youth  and  joy!     I  that  am  spent  and  poor 

Will  straight  grow  rich  and  hale; 

And  there  shall  naught  avail 

To  filch  from  me  my  wealth; 

No  creeping  stealth 

Shall  grasp  it  in  the  watches  of  the  night!" 

[  404  ] 


Hence  I  abide. 

0  ye  who  would  win  healing,  heart-delight, 

Come  ye  and  look  and  list,  revivified! 

Slough  thy  gray  wintry  mood ! 

Clasp  hands  with  life-renewed! 

Bird- voice,  brook-babble,  blossom-murmurs,  kind 

Touch  of  the  whispering  wind, 

Grass-crinkle,  bud-unfolding,  each  and  all, 

Have  been,  and  are,  and  will  be  mine  uplifting. 

Earth  hath  no  vernal  entity  so  small, 

So  subtle,  or  so  shifting, 

It  doth  not  hold  me  thrall! 


[405 


THE  TOIL  OF   THE  TRAIL1 

BY   HAMLIN   GARLAND 

What  have  I  gained  by  the  toil  of  the  trail? 
I  know  and  know  well. 
I  have  found  once  again  the  lore  I  had  lost 
In  the  loud  city's  hell. 

I  have  broadened  my  hand  to  the  cinch  and  the  axe, 

I  have  laid  my  flesh  to  the  rain; 

I  was  hunter  and  trailer  and  guide; 

I  have  touched  the  most  primitive  wildness  again. 

I  have  threaded  the  wild  with  the  stealth  of  the  deer, 

No  eagle  is  freer  than  I; 

No  mountain  can  thwart  me,  no  torrent  appall, 

I  defy  the  stern  sky. 

So  long  as  I  live  these  joys  will  remain, 

I  have  touched  the  most  primitive  wildness  again. 

1  From  Harper's  "  Main  Travelled  Roads."     Used  by  permission. 


[406] 


THE  MEADOW  LARK1 

BY  HAMLIN   GARLAND 

A  brave  little  bird  that  fears  not  God, 

A  voice  that  breaks  from  the  snow-wet  clod 

With  prophecy  of  sunny  sod, 

Set  thick  with  wind- waved  goldenrod. 

From  the  first  bare  clod  in  the  raw,  cold  spring, 
From  the  last  bare  clod,  when  fall  winds  sting, 
The  farm-boy  hears  his  brave  song  ring, 
And  work  for  the  time  is  a  pleasant  thing. 

^rom  Harper's  "  Main  Travelled  Roads."     Used  by  permission. 


[407] 


THE  WILD   RIDE 

BY  LOUISE  IMOGEN   GUINEY 

/  hear  in  my  heart,  I  hear  in  its  ominous  pulses, 
All  day,  on  the  road,  the  hoofs  of  invisible  horses; 
All  night,  from  their  stalls,  the  importunate  tramping 
and  neighing. 

Let  cowards  and  laggards  fall  back!  but  alert  to  the 

saddle, 
Straight,  grim,  and  abreast,   go   the  weather-worn, 

galloping  legion, 
With  a  stirrup-cup  each  to  the  lily  of  women  that 

loves  him. 

The  trail  is  through  dolor  and  dread,  over  crags  and 

morasses; 
There  are  shapes  by  the  way,  there  are  things  that 

appall  or  entice  us: 
What  odds?     We  are  knights,  and  our  souls  are  but 

bent  on  the  riding. 

I  hear  in  my  heart,  I  hear  in  its  ominous  pulses, 
All  day,  on  the  road,  the  hoofs  of  invisible  horses ; 
All  night,  from  their  stalls,  the  importunate  tramping 
and  neighing. 

[408] 


We  spur  to  a  land  of  no  name,  out-racing  the  storm- 
wind; 

We  leap  to  the  infinite  dark,  like  the  sparks  from  the 
anvil. 

Thou  leadest,  O  God!  All's  well  with  Thy  troopers 
that  follow. 


[409] 


THE   COASTERS 

BY  THOMAS   FLEMING  DAY 

Overloaded,  undermanned, 
Trusting  to  a  lee, 
Playing  I-spy  with  the  land, 
Jockeying  the  sea  — 
That's  the  way  the  Coaster  goes 
Thro'  calm  and  hurricane: 
Everywhere  the  tide  flows, 
Everywhere  the  wind  blows, 
From  Mexico  to  Maine. 

0  East  and  West!    O  North  and  South! 

We  ply  along  the  shore, 

From  famous  Fundy's  foggy  mouth, 

From  voes  of  Labrador; 

Thro'  pass  and  strait,  on  sound  and  sea, 

From  port  to  port  we  stand  — 

The  rocks  of  Race  fade  on  our  lee, 

We  hail  the  Rio  Grande. 

Our  sails  are  never  lost  to  sight; 

On  every  gulf  and  bay 

They  gleam,  in  winter  wind-cloud  white, 

In  summer  rain- cloud  gray. 

We  hold  the  coast  with  slippery  grip; 
We  dare  from  cape  to  cape; 
[410] 


Our  leaden  fingers  feel  the  dip 
And  trace  the  channel's  slope. 
We  sail  or  bide  as  serves  the  tide; 
Inshore  we  cheat  its  flow, 
And  side  by  side  at  anchor  ride 
When  stormy  head-winds  blow. 
We  are  the  offspring  of  the  shoal, 
The  hucksters  of  the  sea; 
From  customs  theft  and  pilot  toll, 
Thank  God  that  we  are  free. 

Legging  on  and  off  the  beach, 
Drifting  up  the  strait, 
Fluking  down  the  river  reach, 
Towing  thro'  the  Gate  — 
That's  the  way  the  Coaster  goes, 
Flirting  with  the  gale  : 
Everywhere  the  tide  flows, 
Everywhere  the  wind  blows, 
From  York  to  Beavertail. 

Here  and  there  to  get  a  load, 
Freighting  anything  ; 
Running  off  with  spanker  stowed, 
Loafing  wing-a-wing  — 
That's  the  way  the  Coaster  goes, 
Chumming  with  the  land  : 
Everywhere  the  tide  flows, 
Everywhere  the  wind  blows, 
From  Ray  to  Rio  Grande. 

i4"] 


We  split  the  swell  where  rings  the  bell 

On  many  a  shallow's  edge, 

We  take  our  flight  past  many  a  light 

That  guards  the  deadly  ledge, 

We  greet  Montauk  across  the  foam, 

We  work  the  Vineyard  Sound, 

The  Diamond  sees  us  running  home, 

The  Georges  outward  bound; 

Absecom  hears  our  canvas  beat 

When  tacked  off  Brigantine, 

We  raise  the  Gulls  with  lifted  sheet, 

Pass  wing-and-wing  between. 

Off  Monomoy  we  fight  the  gale, 

We  drift  off  Sandy  Key; 

The  watch  of  Fenwick  sees  our  sail 

Scud  for  Henlopen's  lee. 

With  decks  awash  and  canvas  torn 

We  wallow  up  the  Stream; 

We  drag  dismasted,  cargo  borne, 

And  fright  the  ships  of  steam. 

Death  grips  us  with  his  frosty  hands 

In  calm  and  hurricane; 

We  spill  our  bones  on  fifty  sands 

From  Mexico  to  Maine. 

Cargo  reef  in  main  and  fore, 
Manned  by  half  a  crew  ; 
Romping  up  the  weather  shore. 
Edging  down  the  Blue  — 
That's  the  way  the  Coaster  goes, 

[412] 


Scouting  with  the  lead : 
Everywhere  the  tide  flows, 
Everywhere  the  wind  blows, 
From  Cruz  to  Quoddy  Head. 


[413] 


THE  HILLS   OF  REST1 

BY  ALBERT   BIGELOW  PAINE 

Beyond  the  last  horizon's  rim, 

Beyond  adventure's  farthest  quest, 

Somewhere  they  rise,  serene  and  dim, 
The  happy,  happy  Hills  of  Rest. 

Upon  their  sunlit  slopes  uplift 

The  castles  we  have  built  in  Spain  — 

While  fair  amid  the  summer  drift 
Our  faded  gardens  flower  again. 

Sweet  hours  we  did  not  live  go  by 
To  soothing  note  on  scented  wing; 

In  golden-lettered  volumes  He 

The  songs  we  tried  in  vain  to  sing. 

They  all  are  there;   the  days  of  dream 
That  build  the  inner  lives  of  men; 

The  silent,  sacred  years  we  deem 

The  might  be,  and  the  might  have  been. 

Some  evening  when  the  sky  is  gold, 

I'll  follow  day  into  the  west; 
Nor  pause,  nor  heed,  till  I  behold 

The  happy,  happy  Hills  of  Rest. 

^rom   "Harper's    Magazine."     October,    1909.     Used    by  per- 
mission. 

[414] 


THE  LEAST  OF  CAROLS 

BY   SOPHIE  JEWETT 

Loveliest  dawn  of  gold  and  rose 
Steals  across  undrifted  snows; 
In  brown,  rustling  oak  leaves  stir 
Squirrel,  nuthatch,  woodpecker; 
Brief  their  matins,  but,  by  noon, 
All  the  sunny  wood's  a-tune : 
Jays,  forgetting  their  harsh  cries, 
Pipe  a  spring  note,  clear  and  true; 
Wheel  on  angel  wings  of  blue, 
Trumpeters  of  Paradise; 
Then  the  tiniest  feathered  thing, 
All  a-flutter,  tail  and  wing, 
Gives  himself  to  caroling: 

"  Chick-a-dee-dee,  chick-a-dee! 
Jesulino,  hail  to  thee! 
Lowliest  baby  born  to-day, 
Pillowed  on  a  wisp  of  hay; 
King  no  less  of  sky  and  earth, 

And  singing  sea; 
Jesu!  Jesu!  most  and  least! 
For  the  sweetness  of  thy  birth 
Every  little  bird  and  beast, 
Wind  and  wave  and  forest-tree, 
Praises  God  exceedingly, 

Exceedingly. " 

[415] 


NATURE'S  HIRED   MAN 

BY  JOHN   KENDRICK  BANGS 

Diggin'  in  the  earth, 
Helpin'  things  to  grow, 

Foolin'  with  a  rake, 
Flirtin'  with  a  hoe; 

Waterin'  the  plants, 
Pullin'  up  the  weeds, 

Gatherin'  the  stones, 
Puttin'  in  the  seeds; 

On  your  face  and  hands 
Pilin'  up  the  tan  — 

That's  the  job  for  me, 
Nature's  hired  man! 

Wages  best  of  all. 

Better  far  than  wealth. 
Paid  in  good  fresh  air, 

And  a  lot  o'  health. 

Never  any  chance 
Of  your  gettin'  fired, 

And  when  night  comes  on 
Knowin'  why  you're  tired. 

Nature's  hired  man! 
That's  the  job  for  me, 
[416] 


With  the  birds  and  flowers 
For  society. 

Let  the  other  feller 

For  the  dollar  scratch  — 
I  am  quite  contented 

With  my  garden-patch. 


[417] 


A  PHILOSOPHER 

BY   JOHN   KENDRICK   BANGS 

To  take  things  as  they  be  — 

That's  my  philosophy. 
No  use  to  holler,  mope,  or  cuss  — 
If  they  was  changed  they  might  be  wuss. 

If  rain  is  pourin'  down, 

An'  lightnin's  buzzin'  roun', 
I  ain't  a-fearin'  we'll  be  hit, 
But  grin  that  I  ain't  out  in  it. 

If  I  got  deep  in  debt  — 

It  hasn't  happened  yet  — 
And  owed  a  man  two  dollars,  Gee! 
Why  I'd  be  glad  it  wasn't  three! 

If  some  one  come  along, 

And  tried  to  do  me  wrong, 
Why  I  should  sort  of  take  a  whim 
To  thank  the  Lord  I  wasn't  him. 

I  never  seen  a  night 

So  dark  there  wasn't  light 
Somewheres  about  if  I  took  care 
To  strike  a  match  and  find  out  where. 

[4i8] 


A  BALLAD   OF  DEAD   CAMP-FIRES 

BY  ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 


Food  for  the  horses  —  lots  of  it  —  upon  the  bluff, 
Sure  to  be  a  spring  in  a  pocket  of  the  hill, 
There  in  the  deadfall  for  a  fire  wood  enough, 
Here's  the  place  for  bedding  down  — 

Whoa!  Stand  still! 

Throw  off  the  saddles,  untwist  the  hackamores, 
Loads  off  the  burro  and  the  pack  cayuse : 
One  shall  wear  a  bell  to  keep  the  pack  in  ear-shot, 
Twist  the  hobbles  round  their  legs  and 

Turn  them  loose. 

Here  on  the  spot  where  a  fire  crackled  last  year, 

Scrape  the  charry  fagots  off,  kindle  one  anew; 

Men  and  seasons  out  of  mind  each  band  that  passed 

here, 
Lured  by  feed  and  water,  stopped  and 

Made  camp  too. 

Sagebrush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 
Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn- winds  blow; 
Oh,  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago ! 

[419] 


n 

Here  used  to  camp  with  squaws  and  dogs  and  ponies, 
Long  before  the  coming  of  the  pale-face  breed, 
Blackfeet  hunters,  Bannocks,  and  Shoshones, 
Laying  in  their  meat  against  a 

Winter's  need. 

Warm  in  their  blankets,  weaving  savage  fancies 
Out  of  the  smoke  that  veered  above  the  blaze, 
Fortunate  hunts,  the  foray  and  its  chances, 
New  squaws  and  ponies  and  the 

Head  Chief's  praise. 

War  parties  lurk  on  the  trails  to  the  hunting  grounds, 
Treachery  enters  where  the  tepees  spread, 
New  scalps  dry  in  the  towns  of  the  Absaroka, 
The  lodge-poles  are  broken  and  the 

Fire  is  dead. 

Sagebrush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 
Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn- winds  blow; 
Oh,  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago! 

ni 

Here  later  on  came  the  man  whose  race  is  sped  and 

gone, 
Born  white,  burnt  red  under  wind  and  sun; 
[420] 


Life  in  the  one  hand,  rifle  in  the  other  one, 
Traps  in  every  creek  in  which  the 

Beaver  run. 

Feet  to  the  fire,  watching  where  the  eddies  spin, 
Pine  smoke  eddies,  while  the  damp  logs  sing, 
Conjuring  visions  of  mighty  packs  of  beaver  skin, 
Good  for  gold  in  plenty  at  the  post    ■ 

In  the  spring. 

Trail  to  the  traps  in  the  creek  at  break  of  day, 
No  trail  back  —  and  the  sunset  is  red: 
Two  eagles  wheel  above  the  brush  at  the  beaver- 
dam, 
A  timber  wolf  is  howling,  and  the 

Fire  is  dead. 

Sagebrush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 
Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn- winds  blow; 
Oh,  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago ! 

IV 

Gone  bow  and  quiver,  lance  and  feather  bonnet, 
Smooth  bore  and  beaver- trap,  buckskin  jacket,  all  — 
Here  is  the  stage  —  but  where  the  actors  on  it? 
Dead  to  our  plaudits,  and  the 

Vain  recall. 

[421] 


Still  one  shall  hear  the  coyote  in  the  moonlight, 
Still  hear  the  bull-elk  whistle  up  the  sun, 
Still  the  old  orchestra,  carrying  the  tune  right,  — 
Oh,  wasted  music,  for  the 

Play  is  done. 

We  too  shall  act  our  parts  on  other  stages, 
Spinning  out  fancies  while  the  Fates  spin  thread. 
Heap  up  the  fire  then,  keep  the  present  cheery, 
We  must  hit  the  trail  too  when  the 

Fire  is  dead. 
Sagebrush  to  kindle  with, 

Quaking-asp  to  glow, 
Pine-roots  to  last  until  the  dawn- winds  blow; 
Oh,  smoke  full  of  fancies, 

And  dreams  gone  to  smoke, 
At  the  camp-fires  dead  long  ago! 


1 422] 


THE  ROSARY 

BY  ROBERT  CAMERON  ROGERS 

The  hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  heart, 

Are  as  a  string  of  pearls  to  me; 
I  count  them  over,  every  one  apart, 
My  rosary. 

Each  hour  a  pearl,  each  pearl  a  prayer, 

To  still  a  heart  in  absence  wrung; 
I  tell  each  bead  unto  the  end  and  there 
A  cross  is  hung. 

Oh  memories  that  bless  —  and  burn! 
Oh  barren  gain  —  and  bitter  loss ! 
I  kiss  each  bead,  and  strive  at  last  to  learn 
To  kiss  the  cross, 
Sweetheart, 
To  kiss  the  cross. 


[423] 


TAKE  THOU  THIS  ROSE 

BY  RAYMOND   WEEKS 


Take  thou  this  rose,  sweetheart! 

If  life  were  over 
And  I  had  loved  thee  truly  from  the  start; 
If  to  the  last  I  was  as  now  thy  lover; 
If  all  the  joy  I  gave  thee  and  the  bliss 
Could  measured  be  unto  the  very  close, 
There  would  be  nothing  found  more  sweet  than  this ! 
Take  thou  this  rose! 


[424] 


THE  SONG  OF  STEEL 

BY   CHARLES   BUXTON   GOING 

Yea,  art  thou  lord,  O  Man,  since  Tubal  Cain 
Brought  me  to  being,  white  and  torn  with  pain  — 
Wrung  me,  in  fierce,  hot  agony  of  birth, 
Writhing  from  out  the  womb  of  Mother  Earth? 

Art  thou,  then,  king,  and  did  I  make  thee  lord, 
Clothe  thee  in  mail  and  gird  thee  with  the  sword, 
Give  thee  the  plough,  the  ax,  the  whirring  wheel  — 
To  every  subtle  craft  its  tools  of  steel? 

Look!    We  have  slain  the  forests,  thou  and  I  — 
Soiled  the  bright  streams  and  murked  the  very  sky; 
Crushed  the  glad  hills,  and  shocked  the  quiet  stars 
With  roaring  factories  and  clanging  cars! 

Thou  builder  of  machines,  who  dost  not  see! 

That  which  thou  mad'st  to  drive,  is  driving  thee  — 

Ravening,  tireless,  pitiless  its  strain 

For  thy  last  ounce  of  work  from  hand  and  brain. 

Are  thy  sons  princes?     Hard- wrung  serfs!  They  give 
Toil's  utmost  dregs  for  the  bare  chance  to  live; 
They  dig  and  delve  and  strive  with  sweat-cursed  brow 
In  forge  and  shop.     Master?    Nay!  thrall  art  thou! 

[425] 


Fool!    Serving,  I  have  slaved  thee.     Master  Fool! 
To  forge  the  sword)  nor  know  the  sword  should  rule; 
To  make  the  engine,  blind  that  it  must  lead 
Fast  and  yet  faster  on  the  race  of  greed. 

I,  Steel,  am  King  —  thy  king  in  more  than  name! 
Lo,  I  am  Moloch,  crowned  and  throned  in  flame, 
Holding  thee  slave  by  lust  of  thy  desire  — 
Calling  thy  first-born  to  me  through  the  fire! 


[426 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  ROAD 

BY   CHARLES   BUXTON   GOING 

Soft-footed  through  forest  and  bracken, 

Hard-riding  the  desert  or  plain, 
When  shoe-thong  or  girth  ye  would  slacken 

Ye  hear  me  and  follow  again. 
My  lures  have  a  myriad  faces, 

But  all  their  voices  are  one  — 
The  call  of  the  Uttermost  Places 

That  lie  at  the  Back  of  the  Sun. 

By  step  and  by  league  shall  ye  hear  them. 

"To  the  turn  ...  to  the  crest  ...  to  the 
verge!  .  .  ." 
And  ever  ye  seem  to  draw  near  them, 

Yet  ever,  fore-distant,  they  urge 
Through  hill-trail  and  hedge-road  and  byway, 

On  prairie  and  moorland  and  lea, 
To  the  wind-track  and  fast-flying  skyway 

And  spindrift-wet  ways  of  the  sea. 

And  the  heat  of  the  desert  shall  burn  you, 

The  snow-field  and  ice-floe  shall  bite; 
Yet  hometide  nor  fireside  shall  turn  you  — 

I  have  woven  a  speil  on  your  sight: 
Ye  shall  gaze,  to  the  last  of  your  being, 

Ye  shall  toil,  ye  shall  travel  and  spend, 
For  the  Thing  That  Is  Just  Beyond  Seeing 

And  the  Thing  That  Comes  after  the  End! 

[427] 


FAITH 

BY  GEORGE   SANTAYANA 

O  World,  thou  choosest  not  the  better  part! 
It  is  not  wisdom  to  be  only  wise, 
And  on  the  inward  vision  close  the  eyes, 
But  it  is  wisdom  to  believe  the  heart. 
Columbus  found  a  world,  and  had  no  chart, 
Save  one  that  faith  deciphered  in  the  skies; 
To  trust  the  soul's  invincible  surmise 
Was  all  his  science  and  his  only  art. 
Our  knowledge  is  a  torch  of  smoky  pine 
That  lights  the  pathway  but  one  step  ahead 
Across  a  void  of  mystery  and  dread. 
Bid,  then,  the  tender  light  of  faith  to  shine 
By  which  alone  the  mortal  heart  is  led 
Unto  the  thinking  of  the  thought  divine. 


[428] 


A  BIRTHDAY  VERSE 

BY  MARK  HOWE 

How  fierce  the  storm  that  starless  night 

When  she  put  forth  alone ! 
Watching  through  tears  that  quenched  my  sight, 

I  paced  a  shore  unknown. 

But  oh,  when  morning  broke,  and  day 

Smiled  up  across  the  tide, 
Here  in  the  harbor  safe  she  lay, 

Her  rescue  by  her  side! 


[429] 


THE  VALIANT 

BY  MARK  HOWE 

Not  for  the  star-crowned  heroes,  the  men  that  con- 
quer and  slay, 
But  a  song  for  those  that  bore  them,  the  mothers 

braver  than  they! 
With  never  a  blare  of  trumpets,  with  never  a  surge 

of  cheers, 
They  march  to  the  unseen  hazard  —  pale,  patient 

volunteers; 
No  hate  in  their  hearts  to  steel  them,  —  with  love 

for  a  circling  shield, 
To  the  mercy  of  merciless  nature  their  fragile  selves 

they  yield. 
Now  God  look  down  in  pity,  and  temper  Thy  sternest 

law; 
From  the  field  of  dread  and  peril  bid  Pain  his  troops 

withdraw! 
Then  unto  her  peace  triumphant  let  each  spent  victor 

win, 
Though  life  be  bruised  and  trembling,  —  yet,  lit  from 

a  flame  within 
Is  the  wan  sweet  smile  of  conquest,  gained  without 

war's  alarms, 

[430] 


The  woman's  smile  of  victory  for  the  new  life  safe 

in  her  arms. 
So  not  for  the  star-crowned  heroes,  the  men  that 

conquer  and  slay, 
But  a  song  for  those  that  bore  them,  the  mothers 

braver  than  they! 


u3i] 


A  MORE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

BY  BLISS   CARMAN 

The  swarthy  bee  is  a  buccaneer, 

A  burly  velveted  rover, 
Who  loves  the  booming  wind  in  his  ear 

As  he  sails  the  seas  of  clover. 

A  waif  of  the  goblin  pirate  crew, 
With  not  a  soul  to  deplore  him, 

He  steers  for  the  open  verge  of  blue 
With  the  filmy  world  before  him. 

His  flimsy  sails  abroad  on  the  wind 
Are  shivered  with  fairy  thunder; 

On  a  line  that  sings  to  the  light  of  his  wings 
He  makes  for  the  lands  of  wonder. 

He  harries  the  ports  of  the  Hollyhocks, 

And  levies  on  poor  Sweetbrier; 
He  drinks  the  whitest  wine  of  Phlox, 

And  the  Rose  is  his  desire. 

He  hangs  in  the  Willows  a  night  and  a  day; 

He  rifles  the  Buckwheat  patches; 
Then  battens  his  store  of  pelf  galore 

Under  the  tautest  hatches. 

[432] 


He  woos  the  Poppy  and  weds  the  Peach, 

Inveigles  Daffodilly, 
And  then  like  a  tramp  abandons  each 

For  the  gorgeous  Canada  Lily. 

There's  not  a  soul  in  the  garden  world 
But  wishes  the  day  were  shorter, 

When  Mariner  B.  puts  out  to  sea 
With  the  wind  in  the  proper  quarter. 

Or,  so  they  say!     But  I  have  my  doubts; 

For  the  flowers  are  only  human, 
And  the  valor  and  gold  of  a  vagrant  bold 

Were  always  dear  to  woman. 

He  dares  to  boast,  along  the  coast, 
The  beauty  of  Highland  Heather,  — 

How  he  and  she,  with  night  on  the  sea, 
Lay  out  on  the  hills  together. 

He  pilfers  from  every  port  of  the  wind, 
From  April  to  golden  autumn; 

But  the  thieving  ways  of  his  mortal  days 
Are  those  his  mother  taught  him. 

His  morals  are  mixed,  but  his  will  is  fixed; 

He  prospers  after  his  kind, 
And  follows  an  instinct  compass-sure, 

The  philosophers  call  blind. 

And  that  is  why,  when  he  comes  to  die, 
He'll  have  an  easier  sentence 

U33] 


Than  some  one  I  know  who  thinks  just  so, 
And  then  leaves  room  for  repentance. 

He  never  could  box  the  compass  round; 

He  doesn't  know  port  from  starboard  ; 
But  he  knows  the  gates  of  the  Sundown  Straits, 

Where  the  choicest  goods  are  harbored. 

He  never  could  see  the  Rule  of  Three, 

But  he  knows  the  rule  of  thumb 
Better  than  Euclid's,  better  than  yours, 

Or  the  teachers'  yet  to  come. 

He  knows  the  smell  of  the  hydromel 

As  if  two  and  two  were  five; 
And  hides  it  away  for  a  year  and  a  day 

In  his  own  hexagonal  hive. 


Out  in  the  day,  hap-hazard,  alone, 
Booms  the  old  vagrant  hummer, 

With  only  his  whim  to  pilot  him 

Through  the  splendid  vast  of  summer. 

He  steers  and  steers  on  the  slant  of  the  gale, 
Like  the  fiend  or  Vanderdecken; 

And  there's  never  an  unknown  course  to  sail 
But  his  crazy  log  can  reckon. 

He  drones  along  with  his  rough  sea-song 

And  the  throat  of  a  salty  tar, 
This  devil-may-care,  till  he  makes  his  lair 

By  the  light  of  a  yellow  star. 

[434] 


i 


He  looks  like  a  gentleman,  lives  like  a  lord, 
And  makes  like  a  Trojan  hero; 

Then  loafs  all  winter  upon  his  hoard, 
With  the  mercury  at  zero. 


[435] 


THE  JOYS   OF  THE  ROAD 

BY  BLISS   CARMAN 

Now  the  joys  of  the  road  are  chiefly  these: 
A  crimson  touch  on  the  hard-wood  trees; 

A  vagrant's  morning  wide  and  blue, 
In  early  fall,  when  the  wind  walks  too; 

A  shadowy  highway  cool  and  brown, 
Alluring  up  and  enticing  down 

From  rippled  water  to  dappled  swamp, 
From  purple  glory  to  scarlet  pomp ; 

The  outward  eye,  the  quiet  will, 

And  the  striding  heart  from  hill  to  hill; 

The  tempter  apple  over  the  fence; 

The  cobweb  bloom  on  the  yellow  quince; 

The  palish  asters  along  the  wood,  — 
A  lyric  touch  of  the  solitude; 

An  open  hand,  an  easy  shoe, 

And  a  hope  to  make  the  day  go  through,  — 

Another  to  sleep  with,  and  a  third 
To  wake  me  up  at  the  voice  of  a  bird; 

A  scrap  of  gossip  at  the  ferry; 

A  comrade  neither  glum  nor  merry, 

[436] 


Who  never  defers  and  never  demands, 

But,  smiling,  takes  the  world  in  his  hands,  — 

Seeing  it  good  as  when  God  first  saw 
And  gave  it  the  weight  of  his  will  for  law. 

And  oh,  the  joy  that  is  never  won, 

But  follows  and  follows  the  journeying  sun, 

By  marsh  and  tide,  by  meadow  and  stream, 
A  will-o'-the-wind,  a  light-o'-dream, 

The  racy  smell  of  the  forest  loam, 

When  the  stealthy  sad-heart  leaves  go  home; 

The  broad  gold  wake  of  the  afternoon; 
The  silent  fleck  of  the  cold  new  moon; 

The  sound  of  the  hollow  sea's  release 
From  stormy  tumult  to  starry  peace; 

With  only  another  league  to  wend; 

And  two  brown  arms  at  the  journey's  end! 

These  are  the  joys  of  the  open  road  — 
For  him  who  travels  without  a  load. 


437] 


THE   SCEPTICS 

BY   BLISS   CARMAN 

It  was  the  little  leaves  beside  the  road. 

Said  Grass,  "What  is  that  sound 

So  dismally  profound, 

That  detonates  and  desolates  the  air?" 

"That  is  St.  Peter's  bell," 

Said  rain-wise  Pimpernel; 

"He  is  music  to  the  godly, 

Though  to  us  he  sounds  so  oddly, 

And  he  terrifies  the  faithful  unto  prayer." 

Then  something  very  like  a  groan 
Escaped  the  naughty  little  leaves. 

Said  Grass,  "And  whither  track 

These  creatures  all  in  black, 

So  woe-begone  and  penitent  and  meek?  " 

"They're  mortals  bound  for  church," 

Said  the  little  Silver  Birch; 

"They  hope  to  get  to  heaven 

And  have  their  sins  forgiven, 

If  they  talk  to  God  about  it  once  a  week." 

And  something  very  like  a  smile 
Ran  through  the  naughty  little  leaves. 

[438] 


Said  the  Grass,  "What  is  that  noise 

That  startles  and  destroys 

Our  blessed  summer  brooding  when  we're  tired?  " 

"That's  folk  a-praising  God," 

Said  the  tough  old  cynic  Clod; 

"They  do  it  every  Sunday, 

They'll  be  all  right  on  Monday; 

It's  just  a  little  habit  they've  acquired." 

And  laughter  spread  among  the  little  leaves. 


[439] 


COMRADES 

BY  BLISS   CARMAN  AND   RICHARD  HOVEY 

Comrades,  pour  the  wine  to-night, 

For  the  parting  is  with  dawn! 

Oh,  the  clink  of  cups  together, 

With  the  daylight  coming  on! 

Greet  the  morn 

With  a  double  horn, 

When  strong  men  drink  together! 

Comrades,  gird  your  swords  to-night, 

For  the  battle  is  with  dawn! 

Oh,  the  clash  of  shields  together, 

With  the  triumph  coming  on! 

Greet  the  foe, 

And  lay  him  low, 

When  strong  men  nghjt  together. 

Comrades,  watch  the  tides  to-night, 

For  the  sailing  is  with  dawn! 

Oh,  to  face  the  spray  together, 

With  the  tempest  coming  on! 

Greet  the  sea 

With  a  shout  of  glee, 

When  strong  men  roam  together! 

Comrades,  give  a  cheer  to-night, 
For  the  dying  is  with  dawn! 

[440] 


Oh,  to  meet  the  stars  together, 

With  the  silence  coming  on! 

Greet  the  end 

As  a  friend  a  friend, 

When  strong  men  die  together! 


[44i] 


THE  KAVANAGH 

BY  BLISS   CARMAN   AND   RICHARD   HOVEY 

A  stone  jug  and  a  pewter  mug, 
And  a  table  set  for  three! 
A  jug  and  a  mug  at  every  place, 
And  a  biscuit  or  two  with  Brie! 
Three  stone  jugs  of  Cruiskeen  Lawn, 
And  a  cheese  like  crusted  foam! 
The  Kavanagh  receives  to-night! 
McMurrough  is  at  home ! 

We  three  and  the  barley-bree! 

And  a  health  to  the  one  away, 

Who  drifts  down  careless  Italy, 

God's  wanderer  and  estray! 

For  friends  are  more  than  Arno's  store 

Of  garnered  charm,  and  he 

Were  blither  with  us  here  the  night 

Than  Titian  bids  him  be. 

Throw  ope  the  window  to  the  stars, 
And  let  the  warm  night  in ! 
Who  knows  what  revelry  in  Mars 
May  rhyme  with  rouse  akin? 
Fill  up  and  drain  the  loving-cup 
And  leave  no  drop  to  waste! 
The  moon  looks  in  to  see  what's  up  — 
Begad,  she'd  like  a  taste! 

[442]* 


What  odds  if  Leinster's  kingly  roll 

Be  now  an  idle  thing? 

The  world  is  his  who  takes  his  toll, 

A  vagrant  or  a  king. 

What  though  the  crown  be  melted  down, 

And  the  heir  a  gypsy  roam? 

The  Kavanagh  receives  to-night! 

McMurrough  is  at  home  I 

We  three  and  the  barley-bree! 

And  the  moonlight  on  the  floor! 

Who  were  a  man  to  do  with  less? 

What  emperor  has  more? 

Three  stone  jugs  of  Cruiskeen  Lawn, 

And  three  stout  hearts  to  drain 

A  slanter  to  the  truth  in  the  heart  of  youth 

And  the  joy  of  the  love  of  men. 


[443] 


SPRING  SONG 

BY  BLISS   CARMAN  AND  RICHARD  HOVEY 

Make  me  over,  mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir! 
When  thy  flowery  hand  delivers 
All  the  mountain-prisoned  rivers, 
And  thy  great  heart  beats  and  quivers 
To  revive  the  days  that  were, 
Make  me  over,  mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir! 

Take  my  dust  and  all  my  dreaming, 
Count  my  heart-beats  one  by  one, 
Send  them  where  the  winters  perish; 
Then  some  golden  noon  re-cherish 
And  restore  them  in  the  sun, 
Flower  and  scent  and  dust  and  dreaming, 
With  their  heart-beats  every  one ! 

Set  me  in  the  urge  and  tide-drift 
Of  the  streaming  hosts  awing ! 
Breast  of  scarlet,  throat  of  yellow, 
Raucous  challenge,  wooings  mellow  — 
Every  migrant  is  my  fellow, 
Making  northward  with  the  spring. 
Loose  me  in  the  urge  and  tide-drift 
Of  the  streaming  hosts  awing ! 

[  444  ] 


Shrilling  pipe  or  fluting  whistle, 
In  the  valleys  come  again; 
Fife  of  frog  and  call  of  tree-toad, 
All  my  brothers,  five  or  three-toed, 
With  their  revel  no  more  vetoed, 
Making  music  in  the  rain ; 
Shrilling  pipe  or  fluting  whistle 
In  the  valleys  come  again. 

Make  me  of  thy  seed  to-morrow, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  I 
Tawny  light-foot,  sleepy  bruin, 
Bright  eyes  in  the  orchard  ruin, 
Gnarl  the  good  life  goes  askew  in, 
Whisky-jack,  or  tanager,  — 
Make  me  anything  to-morrow, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir ! 

Make  me  even  (How  do  I  know?) 

Like  my  friend  the  gargoyle  there; 

It  may  be  the  heart  within  him 

Swells  that  doltish  hands  should  pin  him 

Fixed  forever  in  mid-air. 

Make  me  even  sport  for  swallows, 

Like  the  soaring  gargoyle  there ! 

Give  me  the  old  clue  to  follow, 
Through  the  labyrinth  of  night! 
Clod  of  clay  with  heart  of  fire, 
Things  that  burrow  and  aspire, 
With  the  vanishing  desire, 

[445] 


For  the  perishing  delight,  — 
Only  the  old  clue  to  follow, 
Through  the  labyrinth  of  night ! 

Make  me  over,  mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir ! 
Fashion  me  from  swamp  or  meadow, 
Garden  plot  or  ferny  shadow, 
Hyacinth  or  humble  burr ! 
Make  me  over,  mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir! 

Let  me  hear  the  far,  low  summons, 
When  the  silver  winds  return; 
Rills  that  run  and  streams  that  stammer, 
Goldenwing  with  his  loud  hammer, 
Icy  brooks  that  brawl  and  clamor, 
When  the  Indian  willows  burn; 
Let  me  hearken  to  the  calling, 
When  the  silver  winds  return, 

Till  recurring  and  recurring, 
Long  since  wandered  and  come  back, 
Like  a  whim  of  Grieg's  or  Gounod's, 
This  same  self,  bird,  bud,  or  Bluenose, 
Some  day  I  may  capture  (Who  knows?) 
Just  the  one  last  joy  I  lack, 
Waking  to  the  far  new  summons, 
When  the  old  spring  winds  come  back. 

For  I  have  no  choice  of  being, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  climb,  — 

[446] 


Strong  insistence,  sweet  intrusion, 
Vasts  and  verges  of  illusion, 
So  I  win,  to  time's  confusion, 
The  one  perfect  pearl  of  time, 
Joy  and  joy  and  joy  forever, 
Till  the  sap  forgets  to  climb! 

Make  me  over  in  the  morning 
From  the  rag-bag  of  the  world ! 
Scraps  of  dream  and  duds  of  daring, 
Home-brought  stuff  from  far  sea-faring, 
Faded  colors  once  so  flaring, 
Shreds  of  banners  long  since  furled ! 
Hues  of  ash  and  glints  of  glory, 
In  the  rag-bag  of  the  world! 

Let  me  taste  the  old  immortal 
Indolence  of  life  once  more; 
Not  recalling  nor  foreseeing, 
Let  the  great  slow  joys  of  being 
Well  my  heart  through  as  of  yore ! 
Let  me  taste  the  old  immortal 
Indolence  of  life  once  more ! 

Give  me  the  old  drink  for  rapture, 

The  delirium  to  drain, 

All  my  fellows  drank  in  plenty 

At  the  Three  Score  Inns  and  Twenty 

From  the  mountains  to  the  main! 

Give  me  the  old  drink  for  rapture, 

The  delirium  to  drain! 

[447] 


Only  make  me  over,  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir! 
Make  me  man  or  make  me  woman, 
Make  me  oaf  or  ape  or  human, 
Cup  of  flower,  or  cone  of  fir; 
Make  me  anything  but  neuter 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  I 


[448] 


NEW  YORK 

BY  RICHARD  HOVEY 

The  low  line  of  the  walls  that  lie  outspread 
Miles  on  long  miles,  the  fog  and  smoke  and  slime, 
The  wharves  and  ships  with  flags  of  every  clime, 
The  domes  and  steeples  rising  overhead! 

It  is  not  these.     Rather  it  is  the  tread 

Of  the  million  heavy  feet  that  keep  sad  time 

To  heavy  thoughts,  the  want  that  mothers  crime, 

The  weary  toiling  for  a  bitter  bread, 

The  perishing  of  poets  for  renown, 

The  shriek  of  shame  from  the  concealing  waves. 

Ah,  me!  how  many  heart-beats  day  by  day 

Go  to  make  up  the  life  of  the  vast  town ! 

O  myriad  dead  in  unremembered  graves ! 

O  torrent  of  the  living  down  Broadway ! 


[449] 


AT  THE   CROSSROADS 

BY  RICHARD   HOVEY 

You  to  the  left  and  I  to  the  right, 

For  the  ways  of  men  must  sever  — 

And  it  well  may  be  for  a  day  and  a  night, 

And  it  well  may  be  forever. 

But  whether  we  meet  or  whether  we  part 

(For  our  ways  are  past  our  knowing), 

A  pledge  from  the  heart  to  its  fellow-heart 

On  the  ways  we  all  are  going ! 

Here's  luck! 

For  we  know  not  where  we  are  going. 

We  have  striven  fair  in  love  and  war, 

But  the  wheel  was  always  weighted; 

We  have  lost  the  prize  that  we  struggled  for, 

We  have  won  the  prize  that  was  fated. 

We  have  met  our  loss  with  a  smile  and  a  song, 

And  our  gains  with  a  wink  and  a  whistle,  — 

For,  whether  we're  right,  or  whether  we're  wrong, 

There's  a  rose  for  every  thistle. 

Here's  luck  — 

And  a  drop  to  wet  your  whistle ! 

Whether  we  win  or  whether  we  lose 
With  the  hands  that  life  is  dealing, 
It  is  not  we  nor  the  ways  we  choose 

[  450  ] 


But  the  fall  of  the  cards  that's  searing. 

There's  a  fate  in  love  and  a  fate  in  fight, 

And  the  best  of  us  all  go  under  — 

And  whether  we're  wrong  or  whether  we're  right, 

We  win,  sometimes,  to  our  wonder. 

Here's  luck  — 

That  we  may  not  yet  go  under ! 

With  a  steady  swing  and  an  open  brow 

We  have  tramped  the  ways  together, 

But  we're  clasping  hands  at  the  crossroads  now 

In  the  Fiend's  own  night  for  weather; 

And  whether  we  bleed  or  whether  we  smile 

In  the  leagues  that  He  before  us, 

The  ways  of  life  are  many  a  mile 

And  the  dark  of  Fate  is  o'er  us. 

Here's  luck  I 

And  a  cheer  for  the  dark  before  us. 

You  to  the  left  and  I  to  the  right, 

For  the  ways  of  men  must  sever, 

And  it  well  may  be  for  a  day  and  a  night, 

And  it  well  may  be  forever ! 

But  whether  we  live  or  whether  we  die 

(For  the  end  is  past  our  knowing) , 

Here's  two  frank  hearts  and  the  open  sky, 

Be  a  fair  or  an  ill  wind  blowing  I 

Here's  luck! 

In  the  teeth  of  all  winds  blowing. 


[451] 


THE  WHIPPOORWILL 

BY  MADISON   CAWEIN 

Above  long  woodland  ways  that  led 
To  dells  the  stealthy  twilights  tread 
The  west  was  hot  geranium-red; 

And  still,  and  still, 
Along  old  lanes,  the  locusts  sow 
With  clustered  curls  the  May-times  know, 
Out  of  the  crimson  afterglow, 
We  heard  the  homeward  cattle  low, 
And  then  the  far-off,  far-off  woe 

Of  ' '  whippoorwill  I "  of  "  whippoorwill ! ' ' 

Beneath  the  idle  beechen  boughs 
We  heard  the  cow-bells  of  the  cows 
Come  slowly  jangling  towards  the  house; 

And  still,  and  still, 
Beyond  the  light  that  would  not  die 
Out  of  the  scarlet-haunted  sky, 
Beyond  the  evening-star's  white  eye 
Of  glittering  chalcedony, 
Drained  out  of  dusk  the  plaintive  cry 

Of  "whippoorwill!"  of  "whippoorwill!" 

What  is  there  in  the  moon,  that  swims 
A  naked  bosom  o'er  the  limbs, 
That  all  the  wood  with  magic  dims? 
While  still,  while  still, 

[452] 


Among  the  trees  whose  shadows  grope 
'Mid  ferns  and  flow'rs  the  dew-drops  ope, 
Lost  in  faint  deeps  of  heliotrope 
Above  the  clover-scented  slope,  — 
Retreats,  despairing  past  all  hope, 

The  whippoorwill,  the  whippoorwill. 


[453] 


ON  THE  FARM 

BY   MADISON   CAWEIN 


He  sang  a  song  as  he  sowed  the  field, 

Sowed  the  field  at  break  of  day: 
"When  the  pursed-up  leaves  are  as  lips  that  yield 
Balm  and  balsam,  and  Spring,  —  concealed 
In  the  odorous  green,  —  is  so  revealed, 
Halloo  and  oh! 

Hallo  for  the  woods  and  the  far  away!" 

ii 

He  trilled  a  song  as  he  mowed  the  mead, 

Mowed  the  mead  as  noon  begun: 
"When  the  hills  are  gold  with  the  ripened  seed, 
As  the  sunset  stairs  of  the  clouds  that  lead 
To  the  sky  where  Summer  knows  naught  of  need, 
Halloo  and  oh! 

Hallo  for  the  hills  and  the  harvest  sun!" 

in 

He  hummed  a  song  as  he  swung  the  flail, 

Swung  the  flail  in  the  afternoon : 
"When  the  idle  fields  are  a  wrecker's  tale, 
That  the  Autumn  tells  to  the  twilight  pale, 

[454] 


As  the  Year  turns  seaward  a  crimson  sail, 
Halloo  and  oh! 
Hallo  for  the  fields  and  the  hunter's  moon!" 

IV 

He  whistled  a  song  as  he  shouldered  his  axe, 

Shouldered  his  axe  in  the  evening  storm: 
"  When  the  snow  of  the  road  shows  the  rabbit's  tracks, 
And  the  wind  is  a  whip  that  the  Winter  cracks, 
With  a  herdsman's  cry,  o'er  the  clouds'  black  backs, 
Halloo  and  oh! 
Hallo  for  home  and  a  fire  to  warm!" 


[455] 


A  LITTLE  PARABLE1 

BY  ANNE   REEVE   ALDRICH 

I  made  the  cross  myself  whose  weight 

Was  later  laid  on  me. 
This  thought  is  torture  as  I  toil 

Up  life's  steep  Calvary. 

To  think  mine  own  hands  drove  the  nails! 

I  sang  a  merry  song, 
And  chose  the  heaviest  wood  I  had 

To  build  it  firm  and  strong. 

If  I  had  guessed  —  if  I  had  dreamed 

Its  weight  was  meant  for  me, 
I  should  have  made  a  lighter  cross 

To  bear  up  Calvary. 

^rom  "Songs  About  Life,  Love  and  Death."     Copyright,  1892, 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


[456] 


RECOLLECTION1 

BY  ANNE   REEVE   ALDRICH 

How  can  it  be  that  I  forget 

The  way  he  phrased  my  doom, 
When  I  recall  the  arabesques 

That  carpeted  the  room? 

How  can  it  be  that  I  forget 

His  look  and  mien  that  hour, 
When  I  recall  I  wore  a  rose, 

And  still  can  smell  the  flower? 

How  can  it  be  that  I  forget 

Those  words  that  were  the  last, 
When  I  recall  the  tune  a  man 

Was  whistling  as  he  passed? 

These  things  are  what  we  keep  from  life's 

Supremest  joy  or  pain; 
For  memory  locks  her  chaff  in  bins 

And  throws  away  the  grain. 

^rom  "Songs  About  Life,  Love  and  Death."     Copyright,  1892, 
by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


[457 


SILKWEED 

BY  PHILIP  HENRY  SAVAGE 

Lighter  than  dandelion  down, 

Or  feathers  from  the  white  moth's  wing, 
Out  of  the  gates  of  bramble-town 

The  silkweed  goes  a-gypsying. 

Too  fair  to  fly  in  autumn's  rout, 
All  winter  in  the  sheath  it  lay; 

But  now,  when  spring  is  pushing  out, 
The  zephyr  calls,  "Away!  away!" 

Through  mullein,  bramble,  brake,  and  fern, 
Up  from  the  cradle-spring  they  fly, 

Beyond  the  boundary  wall  to  turn 
And  voyage  through  the  friendly  sky. 

Softly,  as  if  instinct  with  thought, 
They  float  and  drift,  delay  and  turn; 

And  one  avoids  and  one  is  caught 
Between  an  oak-leaf  and  a  fern. 

And  one  holds  by  an  airy  line 

The  spider  drew  from  tree  to  tree; 

And  if  the  web  is  light  and  fine, 
'Tis  not  so  light  and  fine  as  he! 

[458] 


And  one  goes  questing  up  the  wall 
As  if  to  find  a  door;  and  then, 

As  if  he  did  not  care  at  all, 
Goes  over  and  adown  the  glen. 

And  all  in  airest  fashion  fare 
Adventuring,  as  if  indeed, 

'Twere  not  so  grave  a  thing  to  bear 
The  burden  of  a  seed! 


[459] 


IT  IS  LONG  WAITING 

BY  PHILIP   HENRY   SAVAGE 

It  is  long  waiting  for  the  dear  companions, 
The  friends  that  come  not,  though  God  knows  I  need 
them. 

I  smile  and  wait;  and  yet 

The  heart  will  fret. 

A  white  cloud  in  the  east  is  shining;  sadly 
I  see;  my  heart  is  all  too  full  of  longing, 

With  the  old-time  delight 

To  view  the  sight. 

Wherefore  I  turn  and  in  the  eyes  of  women, 
In  the  strong  hands  of  men,  seek  compensation. 

My  prayer  begins  and  ends, 

God  give  me  friends. 


[46o] 


GOD,  THOU  ART   GOOD 

BY  PHILIP  HENRY   SAVAGE 

For  my  thoughts  are  not  your  thoughts,  neither  are  your  ways  my 
ways,  saith  the  Lord. 

God,  Thou  art  good,  but  not  to  me. 

Some  dark,  some  high  and  holier  plan 
Is  hid  beyond  the  world  with  Thee. 

To  the  immortals,  not  to  man, 
God,  Thou  art  good. 

I  do  conceive  Thee  wholly  wise, 

And  good  beyond  the  power  of  touch. 

Eternal  loving-kindness  lies 
In  all  Thy  purposes;  so  much 
I  do  conceive. 

I  do  confess  in  Thee  above, 

All  that  Thy  lovers  have  to  Thee 

Ascribed  of  fellowship  and  love. 
The  words  of  Jesus  on  the  tree 
I  do  confess. 

Into  Thy  hands  I  do  commend 
My  spirit.     All  Thy  ways  I  trust; 

In  fear  acknowledge  to  the  end 
Thy  will,  and  perish  with  the  dust 
Into  Thy  hands. 

[46i] 


God?  Thou  art  good;  but  not  to  man. 

Thy  purposes  do  not  contain 
The  mighty  things  I  hope.     Thy  plan 

Looks  past  humanity  and  pain. 
God,  Thou  art  good. 


[462 


LOVE  TRIUMPHANT1 

BY   FREDERIC   LAWRENCE   KNOWLES 

Helen's  lips  are  drifting  dust; 

Ilion  is  consumed  with  rust; 

All  the  galleons  of  Greece 

Drink  the  ocean's  dreamless  peace; 

Lost  was  Solomon's  purple  show 

Restless  centuries  ago; 

Stately  empires  wax  and  wane  — 

Babylon,  Barbary,  and  Spain;  — 

Only  one  thing,  undefaced, 

Lasts,  though  all  the  worlds  lie  waste 

And  the  heavens  are  overturned. 

—  Dear,  how  long  ago  we  learned! 

There's  a  sight  that  blinds  the  sun, 
Sound  that  lives  when  sounds  are  done, 
Music  that  rebukes  the  birds, 
Language  lovelier  than  words, 
Hue  and  scent  that  shame  the  rose, 
Wine  no  earthly  vineyard  knows-, 
Silence  stiller  than  the  shore 
Swept  by  Charon's  stealthy  oar, 
Ocean  more  divinely  free 
Than  Pacific's  boundless  sea,  — 
Ye  who  love  have  learn'd  it  true. 

—  Dear,  how  long  ago  we  knew! 

1  From  "  Love  Triumphant,"  by  Frederic  Lawrence  Knowles.  Dana 
Estes  &  Co.,  publishers. 

[463] 


TWILIGHT  SONG 

BY  EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

Through  the  shine,  through  the  rain 
We  have  shared  the  day's  load; 
To  the  old  march  again 
We  have  tramped  the  long  road; 
We  have  laughed,  we  have  cried, 
And  we've  tossed  the  King's  crown; 
We  have  fought,  we  have  died, 
And  we've  trod  the  day  down. 
So  it's  lift  the  old  song 
Ere  the  night  flies  again, 
Where  the  road  leads  along 
Through  the  shine,  through  the  rain. 

Long  ago,  far  away, 
Came  a  sign  from  the  skies; 
And  we  feared  then  to  pray 
For  the  new  sun  to  rise: 
With  the  King  there  at  hand, 
Not  a  child  stepped  or  stirred  — 
Where  the  light  filled  the  land 
And  the  light  brought  the  word; 
For  we  knew  then  the  gleam 
Though  we  feared  then  the  day, 
And  the  dawn  smote  the  dream 
Long  ago,  far  away. 

[464] 


But  the  road  leads  us  all, 
For  the  King  now  is  dead; 
And  we  know,  stand  or  fall, 
We  have  shared  the  day's  bread. 
We  can  laugh  down  the  dream, 
For  the  dream  breaks  and  flies; 
And  we  trust  now  the  gleam, 
For  the  gleam  never  dies;  — 
So  it's  off  now  the  load, 
For  we  know  the  night's  call, 
And  we  know  now  the  road 
And  the  road  leads  us  all. 

Through  the  shine,  through  the  rain, 
We  have  wrought  the  day's  quest;  , 
To  the  old  march  again 
We  have  earned  the  day's  rest; 
We  have  laughed,  we  have  cried, 
And  we've  heard  the  King's  groans; 
We  have  fought,  we  have  died, 
And  we've  burned  the  King's  bones, 
And  we  lift  the  old  song 
Ere  the  night  flies  again, 
Where  the  road  leads  along 
Through  the  shine,  through  the  rain. 


[465] 


GLOUCESTER  MOORS 

BY   WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 

A  mile  behind  is  Gloucester  town 
Where  the  fishing  fleets  put  in, 
A  mile  ahead  the  land  dips  down 
And  the  woods  and  farms  begin. 
Here,  where  the  moors  stretch  free 
In  the  high  blue  afternoon, 
Are  the  marching  sun  and  talking  sea, 
And  the  racing  winds  that  wheel  and  flee 
On  the  flying  heels  of  June. 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 

Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 

The  wild  geranium  holds  its  dew 

Long  in  the  boulder's  shade. 

Wax-red  hangs  the  cup 

From  the  huckleberry  boughs, 

In  barberry  bells  the  gray  moths  sup, 

Or  where  the  choke-cherry  lifts  high  up 

Sweet  bowls  for  their  carouse. 

Over  the  shelf  of  the  sandy  cove 
Beach-peas  blossom  late. 
By  copse  and  cliff  the  swallows  rove 
Each  calling  to  his  mate. 
Seaward  the  sea-gulls  go, 
[466] 


And  the  land-birds  all  are  here; 

That  green-gold  flash  was  a  vireo, 

And  yonder  flame  where  the  marsh-flags  grow 

Was  a  scarlet  tanager. 

This  earth  is  not  the  steadfast  place 

We  landsmen  build  upon; 

From  deep  to  deep  she  varies  pace, 

And  while  she  comes  is  gone. 

Beneath  my  feet  I  feel 

Her  smooth  bulk  heave  and  dip ; 

With  velvet  plunge  and  soft  upreel 

She  swings  and  steadies  to  her  keel 

Like  a  gallant,  gallant  ship. 

These  summer  clouds  she  sets  for  sail, 

The  sun  is  her  masthead  light, 

She  tows  the  moon  like  a  pinnace  frail 

Where  her  phosphor  wake  churns  bright. 

Now  hid,  now  looming  clear, 

On  the  face  of  the  dangerous  blue 

The  star  fleets  tack  and  wheel  and  veer, 

But  on,  but  on  does  the  old  earth  steer 

As  if  her  port  she  knew. 

God,  dear  God!  Does  she  know  her  port, 

Though  she  goes  so  far  about? 

Or  blind  astray,  does  she  make  her  sport 

To  brazen  and  chance  it  out? 

I  watched  when  her  captains  passed : 

She  were  better  captainless. 

U67] 


Men  in  the  cabin,  before  the  mast, 

But  some  were  reckless  and  some  aghast, 

And  some  sat  gorged  at  mess. 

By  her  battened  hatch  I  leaned  and  caught 

Sounds  from  the  noisome  hold  — 

Cursing  and  sighing  of  souls  distraught 

And  cries  too  sad  to  be  told. 

Then  I  strove  to  go  down  and  see; 

But  they  said,  "Thou  art  not  of  us!" 

I  turned  to  those  on  the  deck  with  me 

And  cried,  "Givehelp!"    But  they  said,  "Let be: 

Our  ship  sails  faster  thus." 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 

Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 

The  alder-clump  where  the  brook  comes  through 

Breeds  cresses  in  its  shade. 

To  be  out  of  the  moiling  street 

With  its  swelter  and  its  sin ! 

Who  has  given  to  me  this  sweet, 

And  given  my  brother  dust  to  eat? 

And  when  will  his  wage  come  in? 

Scattering  wide  or  blown  in  ranks, 
Yellow  and  white  and  brown, 
Boats  and  boats  from  the  fishing  banks 
Come  home  to  Gloucester  town. 
There  is  cash  to  purse  and  spend, 
There  are  wives  to  be  embraced, 
Hearts  to  borrow  and  hearts  to  lend, 
[468] 


And  hearts  to  take  and  keep  to  the  end, 
0  little  sails,  make  haste ! 

But  thou,  vast  outbound  ship  of  souls, 

What  harbor  town  for  thee? 

What  shapes,  when  thy  arriving  tolls, 

Shall  crowd  the  banks  to  see? 

Shall  all  the  happy  shipmates  then 

Stand  singing  brotherly? , 

Or  shall  a  haggard  ruthless  few 

Warp  her  over  and  bring  her  to, 

While  the  many  broken  souls  of  men 

Fester  down  in  the  slaver's  pen, 

And  nothing  to  say  or  do? 


[469] 


ROAD-HYMN  FOR  THE   START 

BY   WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 

Leave  the  early  bells  at  chime, 
Leave  the  kindled  hearth  to  blaze, 
Leave  the  trellised  panes  where  children  linger  out 

the  waking-time, 
Leave  the  forms  of  sons  and  fathers  trudging  through 

the  misty  ways, 
Leave  the  sounds  of  mothers  taking  up  their  sweet 
laborious  days. 

Pass  them  by!  even  while  our  soul 
Yearns  to  them  with  keen  distress. 
Unto  them  a  part  is  given;  we  will  strive  to  see  the 

whole. 
Dear  shall  be  the  banquet  table  where  their  singing 

spirits  press; 
Dearer    be    our    sacred    hunger,    and    our    pilgrim 
loneliness. 

We  have  felt  the  ancient  swaying 
Of  the  earth  before  the  sun, 
On  the  darkened  marge  of  midnight  heard  sidereal 

rivers  playing; 
Rash  it  was  to  bathe  our  souls  there,  but  we  plunged 

and  all  was  done. 
That  is  lives  and  lives  behind  us  —  lo,  our  journey  is 
begun! 

[47o] 


Careless  where  our  face  is  set, 
Let  us  take  the  open  way. 
What  we  are  no  tongue  has  told  us:  Errand-goers  who 

forget? 
Soldiers  heedless  of  their  harry?     Pilgrim  people  gone 

astray? 
We  have  heard  a  voice  cry  "Wander!"     That  was  all 
we  heard  it  say. 

Ask  no  more:  'tis  much,  'tis  much   .   .   .    ! 
Down  the  road  the  day-star  calls; 
Touched  with  change  in  the  wide  heavens,  like  a  leaf 

the  frost  winds  touch, 
Flames  the  failing  moon  a  moment,  ere  it  shrivels 

white  and  falls; 
Hid  aloft,  a  wild  throat  holdeth  sweet  and  sweeter 
intervals. 

Leave  him  still  to  ease  in  song 
Half  his  little  heart's  unrest: 
Speech  is  his,  but  we  may  journey  toward  the  life  for 

which  we  long. 
God,  who  gives  the  bird  its  anguish,  maketh  nothing 

manifest, 
But  upon  our  lifted  foreheads  pours  the  boon  of  end- 
less quest. 


[471] 


THE  DAGUERREOTYPE 

BY   WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 

This,  then,  is  she, 

My  mother  as  she  looked  at  seventeen, 

When  first  she  met  my  father.     Young  incredibly, 

Younger  than  spring,  without  the  faintest  trace 

Of  disappointment,  weariness,  or  tean 

Upon  the  childlike  earnestness  and  grace 

Of  the  waiting  face. 

These  close-wound  ropes  of  pearl 

(Or  common  beads  made  precious  by  their  use) 

Seem  heavy  for  so  slight  a  throat  to  wear; 

But  the  low  bodice  leaves  the  shoulders  bare 

And  half  ;he  glad  swell  of  the  breast,  for  news 

That  now  the  woman  stirs  within  the  girl. 

And  yet, 

Even  so,  the  loops  and  globes 

Of  beaten  gold 

And  jet 

Hung,  in  the  stately  way  of  old, 

From  the  ears'  drooping  lobes 

On  festivals  and  Lord's-day  of  the  week, 

Show  all  too  matron-sober  for  the  cheek,  — 

Which,  now  I  look  again,  is  perfect  child, 

Or  no  —  or  no  —  'tis  girlhood's  very  self, 

Moulded  by  some  deep,  mischief-ridden  elf 

So  meek,  so  maiden  mild, 

[472] 


But  startling  the  close  gazer  with  the  sense 
Of  passions  forest-shy  and  forest-wild, 
And  delicate  delirious  merriments. 

As  a  moth  beats  sidewise 

And  up  and  over,  and  tries 

To  skirt  the  irresistible  lure 

Of .  the  flame  that  has  him  sure, 

My  spirit,  that  is  none  too  strong  to-day, 

Flutters  and  makes  delay,  — 

Pausing  to  wonder  on  the  perfect  lips, 

Lifting  to  muse  upon  the  low-drawn  hair 

And  each  hid  radiance  there, 

But  powerless  to  stem  the  tide-race  bright, 

The  vehement   peace   which    drifts   it    toward   the 

light 
Where  soon  —  ah,  now,  with  cries 
Of  grief  and  giving-up  unto  its  gain 
It  shrinks  no  longer  nor  denies, 
But  dips 

Hurriedly  home  to  the  exquisite  heart  of  pain, — 
And  all  is  well,  for  I  have  seen  them  plain, 
The  unforgettable,  the  unf orgotten  eyes ! 
Across  the  blinding  gush  of  these  good  tears 
They  shine  as  in  the  sweet  and  heavy  years 
When  by  her  bed  and  chair 
We  children  gathered  jealously  to  share 
The  sunlit  aura  breathing  myrrh  and  thyme, 
Where  the  sore-stricken  body  made  a  clime 
Gentler  than  May  and  pleasanter  than  rhyme, 
Holier  and  more  mystical  than  prayer.  .-.;.,. 

[473] 


God,  how  thy  ways  are  strange ! 

That  this  should  be,  even  this, 

The  patient  head 

Which  suffered  years  ago  the  dreary  change ! 

That  these  so  dewy  lips  should  be  the  same 

As  those  I  stooped  to  kiss 

And  heard  my  harrowing  half-spoken  name, 

A  little  ere  the  one  who  bowed  above  her, 

Our  father  and  her  very  constant  lover, 

Rose  stoical,  and  we  knew  that  she  was  dead. 

Then  I,  who  could  not  understand  or  share 

His  antique  nobleness, 

Being  unapt  to  bear 

The  insults  which  time  flings  us  for  our  proof, 

Fled  from  the  horrible  roof 

Into  the  alien  sunshine  merciless, 

The  shrill  satiric  fields  ghastly  with  day, 

Raging  to  front  God  in  his  pride  of  sway 

And  hurl  across  the  lifted  swords  of  fate 

That  ringed  Him  where  He  sat 

My  puny  gage  of  scorn  and  desolate  hate 

Which  somehow  should  undo  Him,  after  all! 

That  this  girl  face,  expectant,  virginal, 

Which  gazes  out  at  me 

Boon  as  a  sweetheart,  as  if  nothing  loth 

(Save  for  the  eyes,  with  other  presage  stored) 

To  pledge  me  troth, 

And  in  the  Kingdom  where  the  heart  is  lord 

Take  sail  on  the  terrible  gladness  of  the  deep 

Whose  winds  the  gray  Norns  keep,  — 

That  this  should  be  indeed 

[474] 


The  flesh  which  caught  my  soul,  a  flying  seed, 
You  pictured  I  should  climb. 
Broken  premonitions  come, 
Shapes,  gestures  visionary, 
Not  as  once  to  maiden  Mary 
The  manifest  angel  with  fresh  lilies  came 
Intelligibly  calling  her  by  name; 
But  vanishingly,  dumb, 
Thwarted  and  bright  and  wild, 
As  heralding  a  sin-defiled, 

Earth-encumbered,  blood-begotten,  passionate  man- 
child, 
Who  yet  should  be  a  trump  of  mighty  call 
Blown  in  the  gates  of  evil  kings 
To  make  them  fall; 

Who  yet  should  be  a  sword  of  flame  before 
The  soul's  inviolate  door 
To  beat  away  the  clang  of  hellish  wings; 
Who  yet  should  be  a  lyre 
Of  high  unquenchable  desire 
In  the  day  of  little  things.  — 
Look,  where  the  amphoras, 
The  yield  of  many  days, 
Trod  by  my  hot  soul  from  the  pulp  of  self 
And  set  upon  the  shelf 
In  sullen  pride 

The  Vineyard-master's  tasting  to  abide  — 
0  mother  mine ! 

Are  these  the  bringings-in,  the  doings  fine, 
Of  him  you  used  to  praise? 
Emptied  and  overthrown 

U7s] 


The  jars  lie  strown. 

These,  for  their  flavor  duly  nursed, 

Drip  from  the  stopples  vinegar  accursed; 

These,  I  thought  honied  to  the  very  seal, 

Dry,  dry,  —  a  little  acid  meal, 

A  pinch  of  mouldy  dust, 

Sole  leavings  of  the  amber-man tling  must; 

These,  rude  to  look  upon, 

But  flasking  up  the  liquor  dearest  won, 

Through  sacred  hours  and  hard, 

With  watching  and  with  wrestlings  and  with  grief, 

Even  of  these,  of  these  in  chief, 

The  stale  breath  sickens,  reeking  from  the  shard. 

Nothing  is  left.  Ay,  how  much  less  than  naught! 

What  shall  be  said  or  thought 

Of  the  slack  hours  and  waste  imaginings, 

The  cynic  rending  of  the  wings, 

Known  to  that  froward,  that  unreckoning  heart 

Whereof  this  brewage  was  the  precious  part, 

Treasured  and  set  away  with  furtive  boast? 

0  dear  and  cruel  ghost, 

Be  merciful,  be  just! 

See,  I  was  yours  and  I  am  in  the  dust. 

Then  look  not  so,  as  if  all  things  were  well! 

Take  your  eyes  from  me,  and  leave  me  to  my  shame, 

Or  else,  if  gaze  they  must, 

Steel  them  with  judgment,  darken  them  with  blame; 

But  by  the  ways  of  light  ineffable 

You  bade  me  go  and  I  have  faltered  from, 

By  the  low  waters  moaning  out  of  hell 

Whereto  my  feet  have  come, 

U76] 


Lay  not  on  me  these  intolerable 

Looks  of  rejoicing  love,  of  pride,  of  happy  trust! 

Nothing  dismayed? 

By  all  I  say  and  all  I  hint  not  made 

Afraid? 

O  then,  stay  by  me !  Let 

These  eyes  afflict  me,  cleanse  me,  keep  me  yet. 

Brave  eyes  and  true! 

See  how  the  shriveled  heart,  that  long  has  lain 

Dead  to  delight  and  pain, 

Stirs,  and  begins  again 

To  utter  pleasant  life,  as  if  it  knew 

The  wintry  days  were  through; 

As  if  in  its  awakening  boughs  it  heard 

The  quick,  sweet-spoken  bird. 

Strong  eyes  and  brave, 

Inexorable  to  save! 

Out  of  the  to  and  fro 

Of  scattering  hands  where  the  seedsman  Mage 

Stooping  from  star  to  star  and  age  to  age 

Sings  as  he  sows ! 

That  underneath  this  breast 

Nine  moons  I  fed 

Deep  of  divine  unrest, 

While  over  and  over  in  the  dark  she  said, 

"Blessed!  but  not  as  happier  children  blessed — " 

That  this  should  be 

Even  she   ... 

God,  how  with  time  and  change 

Thou  makest  thy  footsteps  strange! 

[477] 


Ah,  now  I  know 

They  play  upon  me,  and  it  is  not  so. 

Why,  't  is  a  girl  I  never  saw  before, 

A  little  thing  to  flatter  and  make  weep, 

To  tease  until  her  heart  is  sore, 

Then  kiss  and  clear  the  score; 

A  gypsy  run-the-fields, 

A  little  liberal  daughter  of  the  earth, 

Good  for  what  hour  of  truancy  and  mirth 

The  careless  season  yields 

Hither-side  the  flood  o'  the  year  and  yonder  of  the 

neap; — 
Then   thank  you,  thanks   again,   and   twenty  light 

good-byes.  — 
0  shrined  above  the  skies, 
Frown  not,  clear  brow, 
Darken  not,  holy  eyes! 
Thou  knowest  well  I  know  that  it  is  thou! 
Only  to  save  me  from  such  memories 
As  would  unman  me  quite, 
Here  in  this  web  of  strangeness  caught 
And  prey  to  troubled  thought 
Do  I  devise 

These  foolish  shifts  and  slight; 
Only  to  shield  me  from  the  afflicting  sense 
Of  some  waste  influence 

Which  from  this  morning  face  and  lustrous  hair 
Breathes  on  me  sudden  ruin  and  despair. 
In  any  other  guise 

With  any  but  this  girlish  depth  of  gaze, 
Your  coming  had  not  so  unsealed  and  poured 

[478] 


The  dusty  amphoras  where  I  had  stored 

The  drippings  of  the  winepress  of  my  days. 

I  think  these  eyes  foresee 

Now  in  their  unawakened  virgin  time, 

Their  mother's  pride  in  me, 

And  dream  even  now,  unconsciously, 

Upon  each  soaring  peak  and  sky-hung  lea. 


[479] 


PANDORA'S   SONG 

BY  WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 

Because  one  creature  of  His  breath 

Sang  loud  into  the  face  of  death, 

Because  one  child  of  His  despair 

Could  strangely  hope  and  wildly  dare, 

The  spirit  comes  to  the  Bride  again, 

And  breathes  at  her  door  the  name  of  the  child; 

"This  is  the  son  that  ye  bore  me!    When 

Shall  we  kiss,  and  be  reconciled?  " 

Furtive,  dumb,  in  the  tardy  stone, 

With  gropings  sweet  in  the  patient  sod, 

In  the  roots  of  the  pine,  in  the  crumbled  cone, 

With  cries  of  haste  in  the  willow-rod,  — 

By  pools  where  the  hyla  swells  his  throat 

And  the  partridge  drums  to  his  crouching  mate, 

Where  the  moorland  stag  and  the  mountain  goat 

Strictly  seek  to  the  ones  that  wait,  — 

In  seas  a-swing  on  the  coral  bar, 

In  feasting  depths  of  the  evening  star, 

In  the  dust  where  the  mourner  bows  his  head, 

In  the  blood  of  the  living,  the  bones  of  the  dead, — 

Wounded  with  love  in  breast  and  side, 

The  spirit  goes  in  to  the  Bride ! 


480] 


PANDORA'S  SONG 

BY    WILLIAM    VAUGHN    MOODY 

I  stood  within  the  heart  of  God; 
It  seemed  a  place  that  I  had  known: 
(I  was  blood-sister  to  the  clod, 
Blood-brother  to  the  stone.) 

I.  found  my  love  and  labor  there, 
My  house,  my  raiment,  meat  and  wine, 
My  ancient  rage,  my  old  despair,  — 
Yea,  all  things  that  were  mine. 

I  saw  the  spring  and  summer  pass, 
The  trees  grow  bare,  and  winter  come; 
All  was  the  same  as  once  it  was 
Upon  my  hills  at  home. 

Then  suddenly  in  my  own  heart 

I  felt  God  walk  and  gaze  about; 

He  spoke;  His  words  seemed  held  apart 

With  gladness  and  with  doubt. 

"Here  is  my  meat  and  wine,"  He  said, 
"My  love,  my  toil,  my  ancient  care; 
Here  is  my  cloak,  my  book,  my  bed, 
And  here  my  old  despair. 

[481] 


"Here  are  my  seasons:  winter,  spring, 
Summer  the  same,  and  autumn  spills 
The  fruits  I  look  for;  everything 
As  on  my  heavenly  hills." 


[482] 


KENTUCKY  BABE1 

BY   RICHARD   HENRY   BUCK 

'Skeeters  am  a-hummin'  on  de  honeysuckle  vine,  — 

Sleep,  Kentucky  Babe  ! 
Sandman  am  a-comin'  to  dis  little  coon  of  mine,  - — 

Sleep,  Kentucky  Babe! 
Silv'ry  moon  am  shinin'  in  de  heabens  up  above, 
Bobolink  am  pinin'  fo'  his  little  lady  love: 

Yd"  is  mighty  lucky, 

Babe  of  old  Kentucky,  — 

Close  yo'  eyes  in  sleep. 

Fly  away, 
Fly  away,  Kentucky  Babe,  fly  away,  to  rest, 

Fly  away, 
Lay  yo'  kinky,  woolly  head  on  yo'  mammy's  breast,  — 

Um  —  um  — , 
Close  yo'  eyes  in  sleep. 

Daddy's  in  de  cane-brak  wid  his  little  dog  and  gun,  — 

Sleep,  Kentucky  Babe! 
'Possom  fo'  yo'  breakfast  when  yo'  sleepin'  time  is 
done,  — 

Sleep,  Kentucky  Babe! 

1  Copyright,  1896,  by  White-Smith  Music  Publishing  Co.      Used 
by  permission. 

[483] 


Bogie  man'll  catch  yo'  sure  unless  yo'  close  yo'  eyes, 
Waitin'  jes'  outside  de  doo'  to  take  yo'  by  surprise : 

Bes'  be  keeping  shady, 

Little  colored  lady,  — 

Close  yo'  eyes  in  sleep. 


[484] 


LYDIA1 

BY   LIZETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE 

Lydia  is  gone  this  many  a  year, 

Yet  when  the  lilacs  stir, 
In  the  old  gardens  far  or  near, 

The  house  is  full  of  her. 

They  climb  the  twisted  chamber  stair; 

Her  picture  haunts  the  room; 
On  the  carved  shelf  beneath  it  there, 

They  heap  the  purple  bloom. 
A  ghost  so  long  has  Lydia  been, 

Her  cloak  upon  the  wall, 
Broidered,  and  gilt,  and  faded  green, 

Seems  not  her  cloak  at  all. 

The  book,  the  box  on  mantel  laid, 

The  shells  in  a  pale  row, 
Are  those  of  some  dim  little  maid, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 
And  yet  the  house  is  full  of  her; 

She  goes  and  comes  again; 
And  longings  thrill,  and  memories  stir, 

Like  lilacs  in  the  rain. 

Out  in  their  yards  the  neighbors  walk, 

Among  the  blossoms  tall; 
Of  Anne,  of  Phyllis,  do  they  talk, 

Of  Lydia  not  at  all. 

^rom  "A  Wayside  Lute."     Published  by  Thomas  B.  Masher. 

[48s] 


ON  ENTERING  A  NEW  HOUSE 

BY  HERBERT  MULLER  HOPKINS 

Peace  to  this  house  where  we  shall  enter  in! 

Here  let  the  world's  hoarse  din 
Against  the  panels  dash  itself  in  vain, 

Like  gusts  of  autumn  rain; 
Here,  knowing  no  man's  sway, 
In  the  brief  pauses  of  the  fight, 
Let  music  sound,  and  love  and  laughter  light 

Refresh  us  for  the  day. 

The  window  waits  where  I  shall  sit  me  down 

And  sing  a  quiet  song, 
When  sleep  descends  upon  the  darkening  town, 

And  winter  nights  are  long. 
Then  with  the  dawn  I'll  fling  the  casement  wide, 
And  o'er  the  brimming  tide 
I'll  send  it  forth,  as  Noah  sent  his  dove, 
Across  the  world  of  waves  on  wandering  wings  of  love. 


[486] 


SONG  OF  SUMMER1 

BY   PAUL   LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

Dis  is  gospel  weathah  sho' — 

Hills  is  sawt  o'  hazy. 
Meddahs  level  ez  a  flo' 

Callin'  to  de  lazy. 
Sky  all  white  wif  streaks  o'  blue, 

Sunshine  softly  gleamin', 
D'  ain't  no  wuk  hit's  right  to  do, 

Nothin's  right  but  dreamin'. 

Dreamin'  by  de  rivah  side 

Wif  de  watahs  glist'nin', 
Feelin'  good  and  satisfied 

Ez  you  lay  a-list'nin' 
To  the  little  nakid  boys 

Splashin'  in  de  watah, 
Hollerin'  fu'  to  spress  deir  joys 

Jes'  lak  youngsters  ought  to. 

Squir'l  a-tippin'  on  his  toes, 

So's  to  hide  an'  view  you; 
Whole  flocks  o'  camp-meetin'  crows 

Shoutin'  hallelujah. 
Peckahwood  erpon  de  tree 

Tappin'  lak  a  hammah; 
Jaybird  chattin'  wif  a  bee, 

Tryin'  to  teach  him  grammah. 

1  From  "  Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life."     Copyright,  1896,  by  Dodd,  Mead 


&Co. 


487 


Breeze  is  blowin;  wif  perfume, 

Jes'  enough  to  tease  you; 
Hollyhocks  is  all  in  bloom. 

Smellin'  fu'  to  please  you. 
Go  'way,  folk,  an'  let  me  'lone, 

Times  is  gettin'  dearah  — 
Summah's  settin'  on  de  th'one 

An'  I'm  layin'  neah  huh! 


488] 


A  NEGRO  LOVE  SONG1 

BY  PAUL   LAURENCE   DUNBAR 

Seen  my  lady  home  las'  night, 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Hel'  huh  han'  an'  sque'z  it  tight, 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Hyeahd  huh  sigh  a  little  sigh, 

Seen  a  light  gleam  from  huh  eye, 

An'  a  smile  go  flittin'  by  — 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Hyeahd  de  win'  blow  thoo  de  pine. 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Mockin'-bird  was  singin'  fine, 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

An'  my  hea't  was  beatin'  so, 

When  I  reached  my  lady's  do', 

Dat  I  couldn't  ba'  to  go  — 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Put  my  ahm  aroun'  huh  wais', 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Raised  huh  lips  an'  took  a  tase, 
Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

Love  me,  honey,  love  me  true? 

Love  me  well  ez  I  love  you? 

An'  she  answe'd,  "'Cose  I  do"  — 

Jump  back,  honey,  jump  back. 

1  From  "  Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life."     Copyright,  1896,  by  Dodd,  Mead 
&Co. 

[489] 


TIME  TO  TINKER   'ROW!1 

BY  PAUL   LAURENCE   DUNBAR 

Summah's  nice,  wif  sun  a-shinin', 

Spring  is  good  wif  greens  and  grass, 
An'  dey's  some  t'ings  nice  'bout  wintah, 

Dough  hit  brings  de  freezin'  bias'; 
But  de  time  dat  is  de  fines', 

Wethah  fiel's  is  green  er  brown, 
Is  w'en  de  rain's  a-po'in' 

An'  dey's  time  to  tinker  'roun'. 

Den  you  men's  de  mule's  ol'  ha'ness, 

An'  you  men's  de  broken  chair. 
Hummin'  all  de  time  you's  wo'kin' 

Some  ol'  common  kind  o'  air. 
Evah  now  an'  then  you  looks  out, 

Tryin'  mighty  ha'd  to  frown, 
But  you  cain't,  you's  glad  hit's  rainin', 

An'  dey's  time  to  tinker  'roun'. 

Oh,  you  'ten's  lak  you  so  anxious 

Evah  time  it  so't  o'  stops. 
W'en  hit  goes  on,  den  you  reckon 

Dat  de  wet'll  he'p  de  crops. 
But  hit  ain't  de  crops  you's  aftah; 

You  knows  w'en  de  rain  comes  down 
Dat  hit's  too  wet  out  fu'  wo'kin', 

An'  dey's  time  to  tinker  'roun'. 

^rom  "Lyrics  of  the  Hearthside."     Copyright,  1899,  by  Dodd, 
Mead  &  Co. 

[49°1 


Oh,  dey's  fun  inside  de  co'n-crib, 

An'  dey's  laffin'  at  de  ba'n; 
An'  dey's  alius  some  one  jokin', 

Er  some  one  to  tell  a  ya'n. 
Dah's  a  quiet  in  yo'  cabin, 

Only  fu'  de  rain's  sof  soun'; 
So  you's  mighty  blessed  happy 

Wen  dey's  time  to  tinker  'roun' 


[49i] 


LULLABY x 

BY  PAUL   LAURENCE   DUNBAR 

Bedtime's  come  fu'  little  boys, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Too  tiahed  out  to  make  a  noise, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
You  gwine  t'  have  to-morrer  sho'? 
Yes,  you  tole  me  dat  befo', 
Don't  you  fool  me,  chile,  no  mo', 

Po'  little  lamb. 

You  been  bad  de  livelong  day, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Th'owin'  stones  an'  runnin'  'way, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
My,  but  you's  a-runnin'  wil', 
Look  jes'  lak  some  po'  folks'  chile; 
Mam'  gwine  whup  you  atter  while, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

Come  hyeah !  you  mos'  tiahed  to  def , 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Played  yo'se'f  clean  out  o'  bref, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
See  dem  han's  now  —  sich  a  sight! 
Would  you  evah  b'lieve  dey's  white? 
Stan'  still  twell  I  wash  'em  right, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

1  From  "Lyrics  of  the  Hearthside."     Copyright,  1899,  by  Dodd, 
Mead  &  Co. 

[492] 


Jes'  cain't  hoi'  yo'  haid  up  straight, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Hadn't  oughter  played  so  late, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Mammy  do'  know  whut  she'd  do, 
Ef  de  chimin's  all  lak  you; 
You's  a  caution  now  fu'  true, 

Po'  little  lamb. 

Lay  yo'  haid  down  in  my  lap, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
Y'ought  to  have  a  right  good  slap, 

Po'  little  lamb. 
You  been  runnin'  roun'  a  heap. 
Shet  dem  eyes  an'  don't  you  peep, 
Dah  now,  dah  now,  go  to  sleep, 

Po'  little  lamb. 


[493] 


WHEN  DE   CO'N  PONE'S  HOT1 

BY    PAUL    LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

Dey  is  times  in  life  when  Nature 

Seems  to  slip  a  cog  an'  go, 
Jes'  a-rattlin'  down  creation, 

Lak  an  ocean's  overflow; 
When  de  worl'  jes'  stahts  a-spinnin, 

Lak  a  piccaninny's  top, 
An'  yo'  cup  o'  joy  is  brimmin' 

'Twell  it  seems  about  to  slop, 
An'  you  feel  jes'  lak  a  racah, 

Dat  is  trainin'  fu'  to  trot  — 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

When  you  set  down  at  de  table, 

Kin'  o'  weary  lak  an'  sad, 
An'  you'se  jes'  a  little  tiahed 

An'  purhaps  a  little  mad; 
How  yo'  gloom  tu'ns  into  gladness, 

How  yo'  joy  drives  out  de  doubt 
When  de  oven  do'  is  opened, 

An'  de  smell  comes  po'in'  out; 
Why,  de  'lectric  light  o'  Heaven 

Seems  to  settle  on  de  spot, 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

^rom  "  Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life."    Copyright,  1896,  by  Dodd,  Mead 


&Co 


494 


When  de  cabbage  pot  is  steamin' 

An'  de  bacon  good  an'  fat, 
When  de  chittlin's  is  a-sputter'n' 

So's  to  show  you  whah  dey's  at; 
Tek  away  yo'  sody  biscuit, 

Tek  away  yo'  cake  an'  pie, 
Fu'  de  glory  time  is  comin' 

An'  it's  'proachin'  mighty  nigh, 
An'  you  want  to  jump  an'  hollah, 

Dough  you  know  you'd  bettah  not, 
When  yo'  mammy  says  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 

I  have  hyeahd  o'  lots  o'  sermons, 

An'  I've  hyeahd  o'  lots  o'  prayers, 
An'  I've  listened  to  some  singin' 

Dat  has  tuck  me  up  de  stairs 
Of  de  Glory-Lan'  an'  set  me 

Jes'  below  de  Mahstah's  th'one, 
An'  have  left  my  hea't  a-singin' 

In  a  happy  aftah-tone; 
But  dem  wu'ds  so  sweetly  murmured 

Seem  to  tech  de  softes'  spot, 
When  my  mammy  says  de  blessin' 

An'  de  co'n  pone's  hot. 


U95] 


EARLY  MAY  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

BY  PERCY  MACKAYE 

Strawberry-flower  and  violet 
Are  come,  but  the  wind  blows  coldly  yet; 
And  robin's  egg  skies  brood  sunny  chill 
Where  hyacinth  summer  sleeps  under  the  hill 
And  the  frog  is  still. 

Applebloom  floats  on  the  warm  blue  river, 
But  white  shad-blossoms  ripple  and  shiver, 
And  purple-grackle  pipes  till  his  blithe  heart  grieves, 
For  his  gladdest  songs,  through  the  little  elm-leaves, 
Are  but  make-believes. 


[40] 


OLD   TIMES 

BY  HOWARD   WEEDEN 

I  haven't  cooked  a  'Possum  —  Lord! 

For  such  a  long,  long  time, 
It  seems  to  me  I've  lost  somehow 

De  very  chune  an'  rhyme. 

De  times  is  changed,  an'  we  ain't  got 

De  consolations  which 
We're  'bleeged  to  have  if  we  would  cook 

De  'Possum  sweet  an'  rich. 

De  cabin  an'  de  big  fire-place 

Dey  neither  one  is  lef  — 
With  fires  so  good  de  'Possum  would 

Almos'  jes'  cook  his  se'f. 

I  ought  to  think  'bout  Canaan,  but 
It's  Ole  Times  crowds  my  mind, 

An'  maybe  when  I  gits  to  Heaben 
It's  Ole  Times  dat  I'll  find! 


[497 


HOMESICK 

BY  HOWARD   WEEDEN 

I  long  to  see  a  cotton-field 

Once  more  before  I  go, 
All  hot  an'  splendid,  roll  its  miles 

Of  sunny  summer  snow! 

I  long  to  feel  de  warm  sweet  wind 

Blow  down  de  river  bank, 
Where  fields  of  wavin'  sugar-cane 

Are  growin'  rich  an'  rank. 

I  long  to  see  dat  Easy  World 
Where  no  one's  in  a  flurry; 

And  where,  when  it  comes  time  to  die, 
Dis  nigger  needn't  hurry! 


[498] 


THE  PERFECT  LYRIC 

BY  MARION  PELTON   GUILD 

Like  Shakespeare's  lark,  that  sweeps  into  the  blue; 
Like  Swinburne's  roses,  washed  with  Wordsworth's 

dew; 
Like  Sappho's  fire,  that  burns  the  centuries  through. 

A  keen,  bright  dagger,  piercing  to  the  heart; 
A  sweetness  heaven-distilled,  to  allay  the  smart; 
A  rainbow  tear,  dropped  by  imperial  Art. 


U99 


THE  ULTIMATE  LOVE 

BY  MARION  PELTON   GUILD 

That  gentle  lady,  whose  tempestuous  throne 
Was  Dante's  heart,  inspired  her  poet's  quest; 
Sent  down  her  laureled  messenger,  to  arrest 
His  uncompanioned  feet,  to  wanderings  prone, 
And  guide  them  where  the  abysms  of  horror  groan, 
Yea,  on  to  Purgatory's  fire-washed  crest, 
Where  with  most  stern  yet  merciful  behest 
She  waited  him,  and  Eden's  morn  outshone. 

'Twas  she  who  led  him  still  from  shining  sphere 
To  sphere  more  glorious,  till  at  last  they  came 
To  that  great,  final  splendor  of  God's  face; 
Then  Beatrice  soft  withdrew.     All  fear, 
All  hope,  all  joy,  concentred  in  that  flame, 
And  God  alone  filled  all  his  being's  space. 


[500] 


AS  A  LITTLE   CHILD 

BY   FLORENCE   WILKINSON 

I  remember  my  cry  at  the  cardinal  flower 

When  I  first  found  its  hidden  place; 
I  remember  the  streamers  of  northern  lights, 

I,  awake  in  my  bed  one  hour; 
I  remember  the  look  on  my  father's  face 

When  I  did  a  childish  wrong; 
I  remember  my  first  loneliness, 

How  the  hours  were  long,  were  long; 
I  remember  the  touch  of  my  mother's  shawl 

As  it  hung  on  the  closet  door, 

And  the  loving  folds  it  wore; 
I  remember  a  toy  in  the  baby's  hand 

When  he  fell  asleep  and  smiled. 
This  is  the  prayer  I  pray  tonight, 

Not  for  joy  or  a  life  undefiled, 
But  that  always  the  simple  things  may  come 
Thus  to  thrill  my  heart,  to  burst  my  heart, 

As  they  did  to  the  little  child. 


I  Soil 


THE  SUPREME  FORGIVENESS 

BY   FLORENCE   WILKINSON 

They  have  forgiven  me,  these  that  I  have  wronged, 

While  you  still  mindful  are. 
Because  that  I  have  suffered  wrong  from  you, 

Therefore  you  stand  afar. 
Yet  I  do  not  accuse  at  all,  my  love, 

Nay,  mercy  cry. 
They  that  love  least,  they  hurt  the  most. 

(God,  that  through  them  we  die!) 


[502] 


THE  WAYFARER1 

BY  HELEN  HAY  WHITNEY 

Half  way  to  happiness, 

The  whole  way  back  again, 
Stumbling  up  the  stubborn  hill 

From  the  luring  lane. 

Little  sunset  House  of  Hearts 

Standing  all  alone, 
I  would  come  and  sweep  the  leaves 

From  your  stepping  stone. 

I,  and  he,  could  light  your  fires 

Laughing  at  the  rain. 
But  oh,  it's  far  to  Happiness, 

A  short  way  back  again. 

1From  "Herbs  and  Apples."     Copyright,  1910,  by  John  Lane  Co. 


[503 


RENUNCIATION1 

BY  HELEN  HAY  WHITNEY 

Not  what  I  ask,  but  what  I  do  not  ask, 
0  my  Beloved,  proves  my  love  for  you. 

And  love  can  set  to  love  no  harder  task 
Than  wistful  silence,  reticence  to  sue. 


I  lock  my  lips,  I  force  a  wise  content 

With  all  my  being  waiting  for  a  sign. 
Ah,  if  men  knew  what  women's  smiling  meant 

When  fierce  and  hard  the  heart  cries  out,  "He's 
mine." 

Mothers  of  men  are  we,  we  barren  ones 

Who  say,  "Be  happy,  dear,  and  play  your  part." 
What  matter  how  we  yearn,  you  are  our  sons 

Whose  every  footfall  breaks  a  woman's  heart. 

^rom  "Herbs  and  Apples."     Copyright,  iqio,  by  John  Lan3  Co. 


[504  ] 


THE-STAY-AT-HOME 

BY  JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY  MARKS 

I  have  waited,  I  have  longed  — 
I  have  longed  as  none  can  know, 

All  my  spring  and  summer  time, 
For  this  day  to  come  and  go ; 

And  the  foolish  heart  was  mine, 

Dreaming  I  would  see  them  shine,  — 

Harlequin  and  Columbine 

And  Pierrot! 

Now  the  laughing  has  gone  by, 
On  the  highway  from  the  inn; 

And  the  dust  has  settled  down, 
And  the  house  is  dead  within. 

And  I  stay  —  who  never  go  — 

Looking  out  upon  the  snow, 

Columbine  and  Pierrot 

And  Harlequin! 

All  the  rainbow  things  you  see 
Understream  are  not  so  fine; 

And  their  voices  weave  and  cling 
Like  my  honeysuckle  vine, 

Lovely  as  a  Violin !  — 

Mellow  gold  and  silver- thin: 

Pierrot  and  Harlequin 

And  Columbine! 

isosi 


Oh,  the  people  that  have  seen, 
They  forget  that  it  was  so ! 

They,  who  never  stay  at  home, 
Say,  "'Tis  nothing  but  a  show." 

—  And  I  keep  the  passion  in: 

And  I  bide;  and  I  spin. 

Columbine  .  .  .  Harlequin 

.  .  .  Pierrot! 


[506 


THE  SINGING  MAN1 

An  Ode  of  the  Portion  of  Labor 

BY    JOSEPHINE    PRESTON    PEABODY    MARKS 


He  sang  above  the  vineyards  of  the  world. 

And  after  him  the  vines  with  woven  hands 
Clambered  and  clung,  and  everywhere  unfurled 

Triumphing  green  above  the  barren  lands; 
Till  high  as  gardens  grow,  he  climbed,  he  stood, 

Sun-crowned  with  life  and  strength,  and  singing  toil, 
And  looked  upon  his  work;  and  it  was  good: 
The  corn,  the  wine,  the  oil. 

He  sang  above  the  noon.     The  topmost  cleft 
That  grudged  him  footing  on  the  mountain  scars 

He  planted  and  despaired  not;  till  he  left 
His  vines  soft  breathing  to  the  host  of  stars. 

He  wrought,  he  tilled;  and  even  as  he  sang, 
The  creatures  of  his  planting  laughed  to  scorn 

The  ancient  threat  of  deserts  where  there  sprang 
The  wine,  the  oil,  the  corn! 

He  sang  not  for  abundance. —  Over-lords 

Took  of  his  tilth.     Yet  was  there  still  to  reap 

The  portion  of  his  labor;  dear  rewards 

Of  sunlit  day,  and  bread,  and  human  sleep. 

He  sang,  for  strength;  for  glory  of  the  light. 

1  Copyright  1911,  by  The  American  Magazine. 

[507] 


He  dreamed  above  the  furrows,  "They  are  mine!" 
When  all  he  wrought  stood  fair  before  his  sight 
With  corn,  and  oil,  and  wine. 


Truly  the  light  is  sweet, 
Yea,  and  a  pleasant  thing 
It  is  to  see  the  Sun. 
And  that  a  man  should  eat 

His  bread  that  he  hath  won; 

(So  is  it  sung  and  said), 

That  he  should  take  and  keep, 
After  his  laboring, 
The  portion  of  his  labor  in  his  bread, 
His  bread  that  he  hath  won; 
Yea,  and  in  quiet  sleep, 
When  all  is  done. 
He  sang;  above  the  burden  and  the  heat, 

Above  all  seasons  with  their  wayward  grace; 
Above  the  chance  and  change  that  led  his  feet 

To  this  last  ambush  of  the  Market-place. 
"  Enough  for  him,"  they  said  —  and  still  they  say 
"  A  crust,  with  air  to  breathe,  and  sun  to  shine; 

He  asks  no  more!" Before  they  took  away 

The  corn,  the  oil,  the  wine. 

He  sang.     No  more  he  sings  now,  anywhere. 

Light  was  enough,  before  he  was  undone. 
They  knew  it  well,  who  took  away  the  air, 

Who  took  away  the  sun; 

[508] 


Who  took  to  serve  their  soul-devouring  greed, 

Himself,  his  breath,  his  bread  —  the  goad  of  toil; 
Who  have  and  hold,  before  the  eyes  of  Need, 
The  corn,  the  wine,  the  oil! 

Truly,  one  thing  is  sweet 
Of  things  beneath  the  Sun; 
This,  that  a  man  should  earn  his  bread  and  eat, 
Rejoicing  in  his  work  which  he  hath  done  ! 
What  shall  be  sung  or  said 
Of  desolate  deceit, 
When  others  take  his  bread, 
His,  and  his  children's  bread  ? 
And  the  laborer  hath  none. 
This,  for  his  portion  now,  of  all  that  he  hath  done.     . 
He  earns;  and  others  eat. 
He  starves;  and  they  sit  at  meat, 
Who  have  taken  away  the  Sun. 

II 

Seek  him  now,  that  singing  Man. 

Look  for  him, 

Look  for  him 

In  the  mills, 

In  the  mines; 

Where  the  very  daylight  pines,  —  < 

He,  who  once  did  walk  the  hills! 

You  shall  find  him,  if  you  scan 

Shapes  all  unbefitting  Man, 

Bodies  warped,  and  faces  dim, 

In  the  mines ;  in  the  mills 

[509] 


Where  the  ceaseless  thunder  fills 

Spaces  of  the  human  brain 

Till  all  thought  is  turned  to  pain. 

Where  the  skirl  of  wheel  on  wheel, 

Grinding  him  who  is  their  tool, 

Makes  the  shattered  senses  reel 

To  the  numbness  of  the  fool. 

Perish 'd  thought,  and  halting  tongue  — 

(Once  it  spoke;  —  once  it  sung!) 

Live  to  hunger,  dead  to  song. 

Only  heart-beats  loud  with  wrong, 

Hammer  on, —  How  long?  . 

......     How  long  ? How  long  ? 

Search  for  him; 

Search  for  him; 

Where  the  crazy  atoms  swim 

Up  the  fiery  furnace-blast. 

You  shall  find  him  at  the  last, — 

He  whose  forehead  braved  the  sun ;  — 

Wreckt  and  tortured  and  undone. 

Where  no  breath  across  the  heat 

Whispers  him  that  life  was  sweet; 

But  the  sparkles  mock  and  flare, 

Scattering  up  the  crooked  air. 

(Blackened  with  that  bitter  mirk, — 

Would  God  know  his  handiwork?) 

Thought  is  not  for  such  as  he; 
Nought  but  strength,  and  misery; 
Since  for  just  the  bite  and  sup, 

[5">] 


Life  must  needs  be  swallowed  up. 
Only,  reeling  up  the  sky, 
Hurtling  flames  that  hurry  by, 
Gasp  and  flare,  with  Why  —  Why, 

Why? 

Why  the  human  mind  of  him 
Shrinks,  and  falters  and  is  dim 
When  he  tries  to  make  it  out: 
What  the  torture  is  about.  — 
Why  he  breathes,  a  fugitive 
Whom  the  World  forbids  to  live. 
Why  he  earned  for  his  abode, 
Habitation  of  the  toad ! 
Why  his  fevered  day  by  day 
Will  not  serve  to  drive  away 
Horror  that  must  always  haunt:  — 

Want     .      .      .     Want! 

Nightmare  shot  with  waking  pangs;  — 
Tightening  coil,  and  certain  fangs, 
Close  and  closer,  always  nigh     .      . 
.     WHY     .     .     .     WHY? 

Why  he  labors  under  ban 
That  denies  him  for  a  man. 
Why  his  utmost  drop  of  blood 
Buys  for  him  no  human  good; 
Why  his  utmost  urge  of  strength 
Only  lets  Them  starve  at  length;  — 
Will  not  let  him  starve  alone; 
He  must  watch  and  see  his  own 
Fade  and  fail,  and  starve,  and  die. 

[5»] 


Why?     .     .     .     Why? 

Heart-beats,  in  a  hammering  song, 
Heavy  as  an  ox  may  plod, 
Goaded  —  goaded  —  faint  with  wrong, 
Cry  unto  some  ghost  of  God, 

.     How  Long  ?     .  How  Long  ? 
How  Long  ? 

Seek  him  yet.     Search  for  him ! 
You  shall  find  him,  spent  and  grim. 
In  the  prisons  where  we  pen 
Those  unsightly  shards  of  men. 
Sheltered  fast; 
Housed  at  length; 

Clothed  and  fed,  no  matter  how!  — 
Where  the  householders,  aghast, 
Measure  in  his  broken  strength 
Nought  but  power  for  evil,  now. 
Beast-of -burden  drudgeries 
Could  not  earn  him  what  was  his: 
He  who  heard  the  world  applaud 
Glories  seized  by  force  and  fraud, 
He  must  break, —  he  must  take !  — 
Both  for  hate  and  hunger's  sake. 
He  must  seize  by  fraud  and  force; 
He  must  strike  without  remorse! 
Seize  he  might;  but  never  keep. 
Strike,  his  once!  —  Behold  him  here. 


(Human  life  we  buy  so  cheap, 
Who  should  know  we  held  it  dear?) 

No  denial, —  no  defence 

From  a  brain  bereft  of  sense, 

Any  more  than  penitence. 

But  the  heart-beats  now,  that  plod 

Goaded —  goaded  —  dumb  with  wrong, 

Ask  not  even  a  ghost  of  God 

How  long  ? 

When  the  sea  gives  up  its  dead, 
Prison  caverns,  yield  instead 
This,  rejected  and  despised; 
This,  the  Soiled  and  Sacrificed! 
Without  form  or  comeliness; 
Shamed  for  us  that  did  transgress; 
Bruised,  for  our  iniquities, 
With  the  stripes  that  are  all  his ! 
Face  that  wreckage,  you  who  can. 
It  was  once  the  Singing  Man. 

Ill 

Must  it  be?  —  Must  we  then 
Render  back  to  God  again, 
This,  His  broken  work,  this  thing 
For  His  man  that  once  did  sing? 
Will  not  all  our  wonders  do? 
Gifts  we  stored  the  ages  through, 
(Trusting  that  He  had  forgot)  — 
Gifts  the  Lord  required  not? 

[513] 


Would  the  all-but-human  serve! 
Monsters  made  of  stone  and  nerve; 
Towers  that  threaten  and  defy 
Curse  or  blessing  of  the  sky; 
Shafts  that  blot  the  stars  with  smoke; 
Lightnings  harnessed  under  yoke; 
Sea-things,  air-things,  wrought  with  steel, 
That  can  smite,  and  fly,  and  feel! 
Oceans  calling  each  to  each; 
Hostile  hearts,  with  kindred  speech. 
Every  work  that  Titans  can; 
Every  marvel :  save  a  man, 
Who  might  rule  without  a  sword.  — 
Is  a  man  more  precious,  Lord? 

Can  it  be?  —  Must  we  then 
Render  back  to  Thee  again 
Million,  million  wasted  men? 
Men  of  flickering  human  breath, 
Only  made  for  life  and  death? 

Ah,  but  see  the  sovereign  Few, 
Highly-favored,  that  remain! 
These,  the  glorious  residue 
Of  the  cherished  race  of  Cain. 
These,  the  magnates  of  the  age, 
High  above  the  human  wage, 
Who  have  numbered  and  possest 
All  the  portion  of  the  rest ! 

What  are  all  despairs  and  shames, 
What  the  mean  forgotten  names 


Of  the  thousand  more  or  less, 
For  one  surfeit  of  success? 

For  those  dullest  lives  we  spent, 
Take  these  Few  magnificent! 
For  that  host  of  blotted  ones, 
Take  these  glittering  central  Suns. 
Few;  —  but  how  their  lustre  thrives 
On  the  million  broken  lives! 
Splendid,  over  dark  and  doubt, 
For  the  million  souls  gone  out! 
These,  the  holders  of  our  hoard, — 
Wilt  Thou  not  accept  them,  Lord? 

IV 

Oh,  in  the  wakening  thunders  of  the  heart, 
— The  small  lost  Eden,  troubled  through  the  night, 
Sounds  there  not  now, —  foreboded  and  apart, 
Some  voice  and  sword  of  light? 

Some  voice  and  portent  of  a  dawn  to  break?  — 
Searching,  like  God,  the  ruinous  human  shard 
Of  that  lost  Brother-man  Himself  did  make, 
And  Man  himself  hath  marred? 

It  sounds !  —  And  may  the  anguish  of  that  birth 
Seize  on  the  world;   and  may  all  shelters  fail, 
Till  we  behold  new  Heaven  and  new  Earth 
Through  the  rent  Temple- vail ! 

When  the  high-tides  that  threaten  near  and  far, 
To  sweep  away  our  guilt  before  the  sky, — 

[515  J 


Flooding  the  waste  of  this  dishonored  Star, 

Cleanse,  and  o'erwhelm,  and  cry!  — 

Cry,  from  the  deep  of  world-accusing  waves, 

With  longing  more  than  all  since  Light  began, 
Above  the  nations, —  underneath  the  graves, — 
"Give  back  the  Singing  Man  I" 


[516] 


THE  NIGHT-WATCH 

BY  MARTHA   GILBERT  DICKINSON-BIANCHI 

Mark  you  those  kindling  eyes  with  love-light  brave 
The  buoyant  step  and  flash  of  laughter  gay? 

Bright  burn  the  fires  of  a  human  heart, 
To  hold  the  wolves  of  memory  at  bay! 


IN  DREAMS 

BY  MARTHA   GILBERT   DICKINSON-BIANCHI 

In  dreams  we  lost  all  hindering  mortal  sway, 
Inviolate  of  dawn,  —  or  fealty  sworn  by  day  — 
Faithless  in  dreams! 
The  loving  silence  left  us  side  by  side  — 

Beyond  the  wakeful  wastes  of  longing,  —  satisfied, 
Faithful  in  dreams! 
Melting  and  mingling,  vanishing  and  blest  — 

I   scarce   remember,  —  lay   your   head   upon   my 
breast? 
Fearless  in  dreams; 
Nor  when  we  meet  so  otherwise,  forget 

How  in  the  formless  sorcery  of  sleep,  we  yet 
Were  wed  in  dreams. 


[517 


THE  WATCHER 

BY  MARTHA   GILBERT  DICKINSON-BIANCHI 

From  towered  battlement  I  sweep  the  plain, 
And  smite  the  heights  of  hope  with  eager  cry  — 

Who  wears  the  crown?     Who  He  among  the  slain? 
No  harbinger  as  yet  against  the  sky. 

The  future  sleeps  in  night's  dark  hostelry; 

A  watcher  lone,  I  sound  my  bugle-call 
To  speed  the  chance  —  whate'er  the  tidings  be  — 

With  soul  erect  though  coward  strongholds  fall. 

The  echo  wafts  no  signal  from  the  breeze, 

Each  wakeful  star  a  sentry's  challenge  gleams; 

Behind  me  are  the  silent  certainties, 

Around  me  rise  the  silver  mists  of  dreams. 

God  of  the  plain,  what  bidding  wilt  Thou  send? 

Again  in  vain  I  scan  the  dim  highway  — 
Shall  sword  or  scepter  mark  the  vigil's  end? 

God  of  the  hills,  art  Thou  for  peace  or  fray? 

At  last!    Across  the  ridge  I  see  him  leap 
And  fly  on  wing  of  light  unto  my  gate; 

Hail,  runner  Day!    Well  spurned  the  fields  of  sleep, 
Thou  dauntless  sun-clad  servitor  of  fate! 

[sis] 


Put  off  thy  sandals,  while,  with  bars  flung  wide, 
I  meet  thy  weal  or  woe  on  bended  knee. 

Hail,  runner  Day!  whatever  may  betide 
From  out  the  regal  hand  of  destiny. 


[519] 


KINDRED 

BY  ABBIE  FARWELL  BROWN 

I  wander  through  the  woodland  ways, 

And  not  a  whispered  sound, 
No  shudder  in  the  leaves  betrays 

The  quivering  life  around. 

And  yet  I  feel  the  kindred  near 

In  every  ambushed  shade, 
From  tree  and  grass  they  peep  and  peer, 

Half  friendly,  half  afraid. 

I  bend  above  the  magic  tide; 

But  veiled  in  beryl  light 
The  countless  ocean-creatures  hide, 

With  crystal  eyes  and  bright. 

The  rainbow  shapes  glide  to  and  fro, 

Or  gaze  in  still  surprise; 
The  wonder-kin  I  do  not  know, 

Yet  feel  their  curious  eyes. 

Above,  the  starry  mystery, 
With  teeming  space  between; 

I  feel  its  wonders  close  to  me, 
Its  presences  unseen. 

[  520  ] 


MY  MOTHER'S   CLOTHES 

BY  ANNA  HEMPSTEAD  BRANCH 

When  I  was  small,  my  mother's  clothes 

All  seemed  so  kind  to  me! 
I  hid  my  face  amid  the  folds 

As  safe  as  safe  could  be. 

The  gown  that  she  had  on 

To  me  seemed  shining  bright, 
For  woven  in  that  simple  stuff 
Were  comfort  and  delight. 

Yes,  everything  she  wore 

Received  my  hopes  and  fears, 

And  even  the  garments  of  her  soul 
Contained  my  smiles  and  tears. 

Then  softly  will  I  touch 
This  dress  she  used  to  wear. 

The  old-time  comfort  lingers  yet, 
My  smiles  and  tears  are  there. 

A  tenderness  abides, 

Though  laid  so  long  away; 
And  I  must  kiss  their  empty  folds, 

So  comfortable  are  they. 

[521] 


SONG  OF  THE  WANDERING  DUST 

BY  ANNA  HEMPSTEAD   BRANCH 

We  are  of  one  kindred,  wheresoe'er  we  be,  — 
Red  upon  the  highroad  or  yellow  on  the  plain, 
White  against  the  sea  drift  that  girts  the  heavy  sea; 
Thou  hast  made  us  brothers,  God  of  wind  and  rain! 

Yellow  all  along  the  fields,  hey  ho  the  morn ! 
All  the  throb  of  those  old  days  lingers  in  my  feet, 
Pleasant  moods  of  growing  grass  and  young  laugh  of 

the  corn, 
And  the  life  of  the  yellow  dust  is  sweet! 

When  I  bend  my  head  low  and  listen  at  the  ground, 
I  can  hear  vague  voices  that  I  used  to  know, 
Stirring  in  dim  places,  faint  and  restless  sound; 
I  remember  how  it  was  when  the  grass  began  to  grow! 

We  are  of  one  kindred,  wheresoe'er  we  be,  — 
Red  upon  the  highroad  or  yellow  on  the  plain, 
White  against  the  glistening  kelp  that  girts  the  heavy 

sea; 
Thou  hast  made  us  brother's,  God  of  wind  and  rain! 

Blown  along  the  sea  beach !     Oh,  but  those  were  days ! 
How  we  loved  the  lightning,  straight  and  keen  and 
white! 

[522] 


Bosomed  with  the  ribboned  kelp!    Hist!  through  all 

the  ways 
Of  my  brain  I  hear  the  sea,  calling  through  the  night. 

How  we  used  to  jostle,  braced  together  each  to  each, 
When  the  sea  came  booming,  stalwart,  up  the  strand! 
Ridged  our  shoulders,  met  the  thunder,  groaned  and 

held  the  beach! 
I  thank  the  God  that  made  me,  I  am  brother  to 

the  sand! 

We  are  of  one  kindred,  wheresoe'er  we  be,  — 
Red  upon  the  highroad  or  yellow  on  the  plain, 
White  against  the  sea  drift  that  girts  the  heavy  sea; 
Thou  hast  made  us  brothers,  God  of  wind  and  rain! 

Red  upon  the  highroad  that  tra\  °ls  up  to  town ! 
I  have  nigh  forgotten  how  the  old  way  goes. 
Ay,  but  I  was  there  once,  trampled  up  and  down! 
Shod  feet  and  bare  feet,  I  was  friend  to  those ! 

Old  feet  and  young  feet,  —  still  within  my  breast 

I  can  feel  the  steady  march,  tread,  tread,  tread! 

In  my  heart  they  left  their  blood,  —  God  give  them 

rest!  ^ 

In  my  bones  I  feel  the  dust  raised  from  their  dead! 

We  are  of  one  kindred,  wheresoe'er  we  be,  — 
Dumb  along  the  highroad  or  fashioned  in  the  brain; 
Once  my  flesh  was  beaten  from  the  white  sand  by  the 

sea; 
Thou  hast  made  us  brothers,  God  of  wind  and  rain! 

[523] 


Red  dust  and  yellow  dust,  whither  shall  we  go? 
Up  the  road  and  by  the  sea  and  through  the  hearts 

of  men ! 
Red  dust  and  yellow  dust,  when  the  great  winds  blow, 
We  shall  meet  and  mingle,  pass  and  meet  again. 

Red  dust  and  yellow  dust,  I  can  feel  them  yet, 
On  my  lips  and  through  my  soul,  fine-grained  in  my 

mood. 
Still  the  solemn  kinship  calls,  the  old  loves  will  not 

forget, 
And  my  heart  answers  back  to  its  blood. 

Old  dust  and  strange  dust,  wheresoe'er  we  be,  — 
Red  along  the  highroad  or  yellow  on  the  plain, 
White  against  the  sea  drift  that  girts  the  heavy  sea, 
Thou  hast  made  us  brothers,  God  of  wind  and  rain! 


[524] 


AS  IN  A  ROSE-JAR 

BY   THOMAS    S.    JONES,    JR. 

As  in  a  rose-jar  filled  with  petals  sweet 

Blown  long  ago  in  some  old  garden  place, 
Mayhap,  where  you  and  I,  a  little  space 

Drank  deep  of  love  and  knew  that  love  was  fleet  — 

Or  leaves  once  gathered  from  a  lost  retreat 
By  one  who  never  will  again  retrace 
Her  silent  footsteps  —  one,  whose  gentle  face 

Was  fairer  than  the  roses  at  her  feet; 

So,  deep  within  the  vase  of  memory 

I  keep  my  dust  of  roses  fresh  and  dear 
As  in  the  days  before  I  knew  the  smart 
Of  time  and  death.     Nor  aught  can  take  from  me 
The  haunting  fragrance  that  still  lingers  here- 
As  in  a  rose-jar,  so  within  my  heart! 


[525 


SONG  AT  THE  BRINK  OF  DEATH 

BY  BERTHA  FRANCES  GORDON 

Before  I  leap  and  lose  myself  below, 

Give  me  one  moment's  look  beyond  the  brink. 

Volumes  of  fog,  vast  piles  of  rolling  mists, 

Make  war  upon  each  other  like  the  waves. 

I  hear  strong  humming  as  of  mighty  winds, 

And  shock  and  crash,  as  if  a  myriad 

Of  toppling  worlds  were  crushed  and  ground  to  dust. 

And  from  their  dissolution,  whirling,  rise 

Sharp  fumes  and  strange;  and  all  the  tingling  air 

Seems  full  of  unseen  thorns  that  prick  and  burn. 

My  soul  is  in  my  hand  —  I  shall  not  fear, 

Now  shall  I  test  the  temper  of  that  sword 

That  I  have  spent  my  life  to  weld  and  whet. 

Through  ills  I  dream  not  of,  through  agony 

And  ruin  I  shall  cleave  my  fiery  way. 

The  heart  within  me  burns  like  glowing  wine, 

And  as  the  hush  of  earth  slips  from  my  soul, 

The  thrill  of  dawning  godhead  stirs  within. 

I  swing  my  sword,  and  with  a  cry  I  leap. 


[526] 


LUCRETIUS 

BY  TRUMBULL  STICKNEY 

Sperata  Voluptas  Suavis  Amicitiae 

Slow  Spring  that,  slipping  thro'  the  silver  light, 
Like  some  young  wanderer  now  returnest  home 
After  strange  years, 

How  like  to  me  I  to  mine  thy  timorous  plight! 
Who  quietly  near  my  friendship's  altar  come 
Where  yet  no  God  appears. 

By  many  a  deed  I  sought  to  win  his  love, 

Made  him  a  wreath  of  all  my  songs  and  hours,  — 

Most  vain,  most  fair! 

Now  falls  about  the  shroud  my  years  have  wove; 

My  evening  drops  her  large,  slow  purple  flowers 

Thro'  gardens  of  gold  air. 

To  him  this  verse,  to  him  this  crown  of  leaves, 

My  supreme  piety  shall  I  commend : 

This  is  my  last, 

Wreathed  of  what  Youth  endows  and  Age  bereaves, 

Bound  by  the  fingers  of  a  lover  and  friend, 

Green  with  the  vital  past. 

We  sunder,  he  my  Truth,  I  the  desire. 
I  spread  my  wooing  fingers,  I  would  learn 
His  least  address: 

[527] 


But  parcels  of  the  heaven-dispersed  fire, 
Sky-severed  exiles,  we  divinely  learn 
To  suffer  loneliness. 

My  life  was  little  in  joy,  little  in  pain; 

Mine  were  the  wise  denials,  with  none  I  coped 

To  win  the  sky; 

And  when  I  surely  saw  my  love  was  vain  — 

The  joy  of  his  sweet  friendship  I  had  hoped  — 

I  stilled.     Now  let  me  die,  — 

Now  that  the  endless  wind  is  growing  warm, 

Richer  the  star,  and  flowers  on  many  a  slope 

Undo  their  sheath; 

O  let  us  yield  to  life's  divinest  charm 

That  lured  us  thro'  the  blasted  field  of  hope, 

Let  us  return  to  death. 


[528] 


GO  SLEEP,  MA  HONEY1 

BY  EDWARD   D.    BARKER 

Whipp 'will's  singin'  to  de  moon,  — 

Go  sleep,  ma  honey,  m — m. 
He  sing  a  pow'ful,  mo'nful  tune, 

Go  sleep,  ma  honey,  m — m. 
De  day  bird's  sleepin'  on  his  nes', 
He  know  it  time  to  take  a  res', 
An'  he's  gwine  ter  do  his  lebel  bes',  — 

Go  sleep,  ma  honey,  m — m. 

Old  banjo's  laid  away,  — 

Go  sleep,  ma  honey,  m — m. 
Its  pickin's  froo  for  to-day,  — 

Go  sleep,  ma  honey,  m — m. 
De  night  time  surely  come  to  pass, 
De  cricket's  chirpin'  in  de  grass, 
An'  de  ole  mule's  gone  to  sleep  at  las', 

Go  sleep,  ma  honey,  m — m. 

I  hear  de  night  win'  in  de  corn,  — 

Go  sleep,  ma  honey,  m — m. 
Dey's  a  ghos'  out  dah,  sure's  yo'  born,  — 

Go  sleep,  ma  honey,  m — m. 
But  he  dassent  come  where  we  keep  a  light, 
An'  de  candle's  burnin'  all  de  night, 
So  sink  to  res',  des  be  all  right,  — 

Go  sleep,  ma  honey,  m — m. 

1  Copyright,  1909,  by  M.  Witmark  &  Sons. 
[529] 


THE   GREEN  INN1 

BY   THEODOSIA    GARRISON 

I  sicken  of  men's  company 

The  crowded  tavern's  din, 
Where  all  day  long  with  oath  and  song 

Sit  they  who  entrance  win, 
So  come  I  out  from  noise  and  rout 

To  rest  in  God's  Green  Inn. 

Here  none  may  mock  an  empty  purse 

Or  ragged  coat  and  poor, 
But  Silence  waits  within  the  gates 

And  Peace  beside  the  door; 
The  weary  guest  is  welcomest, 

The  richest  pays  no  score. 

The  roof  is  high  and  arched  and  blue, 

The  floor  is  spread  with  pine; 
On  my  four  walls  the  sunlight  falls 

In  golden  flecks  and  fine; 
And  swift  and  fleet  on  noiseless  feet 

The  Four  Winds  bring  me  wine. 

Upon  my  board  they  set  their  store 

Great  drinks  mixed  cunningly 
Wherein  the  scent  of  furze  is  blent 

With  odour  of  the  sea; 

1  From  "The  Joy  of  Life  and  Other  Poems."     Copyright,  1909, 
by  Mitchell  Kennerley. 

[530] 


As  from  a  cup  I  drink  it  up 
To  thrill  the  veins  of  me. 

It's  I  will  sit  in  God's  Green  Inn 

Unvexed  by  man  or  ghost, 
Yet  ever  fed  and  comforted, 

Companioned  by  my  host, 
And  watched  by  night  by  that  white  light 

High  swung  from  coast  to  coast. 

O  you,  who  in  the  House  of  Strife 

Quarrel  and  game  and  sin, 
Come  out  and  see  what  cheer  may  be 

For  starveling  souls  and  thin 
Who  come  at  last  from  drought  and  fast 

To  sit  in  God's  Green  Inn. 


[53i 


BESTOWAL 

BY  MARGARET  FULLER 

Knock  at  my  heart,  and  I  will  ope 

To  Unforgetfulness; 
Breathe  on  my  brows,  and  from  your  own 

Will  fail  my  hands'  caress; 

Ask  of  my  eyes,  and  mine  shall  veil, 

Too  faint  to  seek  or  chide; 
Kiss  —  and  within  your  will  I  lie 

Like  seaweed  in  the  tide. 


fS32] 


THE  PASSION-FLOWER 

BY  MARGARET  FULLER 

My  love  gave  me  a  passion-flower. 
I  nursed  it  well  —  so  brief  its  hour ! 
My  eyelids  ache,  my  throat  is  dry: 
He  told  me  that  it  would  not  die.   * 

My  love  and  I  are  one,  and  yet 
Full  oft  my  cheeks  with  tears  are  wet  — 
So  sweet  the  night  is  and  the  bower! 
My  love  gave  me  a  passion-flower. 

So  sweet!    Hold  fast  my  hands.     Can  God 
Make  all  this  joy  revert  to  sod, 
And  leave  to  me  but  this  for  dower  — 
My  love  gave  me  a  passion-flower. 


I  5331 


INDEXES 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 

PAGE 

After  the  Rain Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 271 

All's  to  gain Anne  Whitney 208 

Alter?     When  the  Hills  Do Emily  Dickinson 248 

Angel's  Song,  The Edmund  Hamilton  Sears 120 

Annabel  Lee Edgar  Allan  Poe 108 

Another  Way Ambrose  Bierce 319 

Arrow  and  the  Song,  The  .  : Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  .  .62 

As  a  Little  Child    Florence  Wilkinson 501 

As  in  a  Rose- Jar Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 525 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd Walt  Whitman 198 

At  the  Crossroads Richard  Hovey    450 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Spade.  . John  Vance  Cheney 344 

Ave  Atque  Vale John  Banister  Tabb  334 

Ballad  of  Dead  Camp-Fires,  A.  .  .Robert  Cameron  Rogers    419 

Ballad  of  Trees  and  the  Master,  A.  Sidney  Lanier 309 

Barefoot  Boy,  The John  Greenleaf  Whittier 82 

Battle-Hymn  of  the  Republic.  .  .  .Julia  Ward  Howe 164 

Bedouin  Song Bayard  Taylor 225 

Beer George  Arnold 259 

Before  the  Rain Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich   270 

Bells,  The Edgar  Allan  Poe  104 

Bells  of  Lynn,  The Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  .  . 57 

Bestowal Margaret  Fuller 532 

Bethlehem Bishop  Phillips  Brooks 265 

Birthday  Verse,  A   Mark  Howe 429 

Blackbird,  The Alice  Cary 200 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The Francis  Miles  Finch 231 

Boys,  The Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 117 

Brahma Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 31 

Bridge,  The Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  .  .  59 

Candlemas ' Alice  Brown 374 

Cardinal  Bird,  The William  Davis  Gallagher 95 

[537] 


PAGE 

Chambered  Nautilus,  The   Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 115 

Charleston  Henry  Timrod 234 

Child's  Wish,  A  Abram  Joseph  Ryan 287 

Christmas  Carol,  A   Josiah  Gilbert  Holland 163 

Chrysaor Henry  Wads-worth  Longfellow  .  .  71 

City  in  the  Sea,  The Edgar  Allan  Poe 100 

Claim  of  Kindred,  The Richard  Burton 395 

Clover John  Banister  Tabb  332 

Coasters,  The   Thomas  Fleming  Day    410 

Comrades Bliss  Carman  and 

Richard  Hovey 440 

Concord  Hymn Ralph  Waldo  Emerson    27 

Coyote   Francis  Bret  Harte 294 

Cricket,  The   James  B.  Kenyon 382 

Crickets,  The Harriet  McEwen  Kimball  ....  262 

Crowing  of  the  Red  Cock,  The  .  .Emma  Lazarus  345 

Daguerreotype,  The William  Vaughn  Moody 472 

Darest  thou  now,  O  Soul Walt  Whitman 174 

Day  on  the  Hills,  A James  Herbert  Morse 307 

Days Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 32 

Days  that  come  and  go John  Vance  Cheney    341 

December Joel  Benton 254 

De  Sheepfol' Sarah  Pratt  McLean  Green  .  .  .  380 

Dirge Thomas  William  Parsons 161 

Do  Not  Grieve Louise  Chandler  Moulton  ....  269 

Dream  of  the  South  Wind,  A Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 239 

Dutch  Picture,  A Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  . .  65 

Each  and  All Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 33 

Each  in  His  own  Tongue William  Herbert  Carrufh 391 

Early  May  in  New  England    .  .  .  .Percy  Mackaye    496 

Embryo Mary  Ashley  Townsend 253 

Endymion Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  .  .  63 

Evening   George  Washington  Doane 24 

Evolution John  Banister  Tabb 331 

Experience William  Dean  Howells .  285 

Faith Ray  Palmer 98 

[538] 


PAGE 

Faith George  Sanlayana 428 

Fate Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 36 

Father  to  Mother Robert  Bridges / .  386 

Fellowship,  The Katharine  Lee  Bates 394 

Flight  of  the  Goddess,  The    Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 276 

Flight  of  Youth,  The    Richard  Henry  Stoddard 219 

Forbearance .Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 35 

Four  Winds,  The Charles  Henry  Luders    389 

Friendship Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 39 

Give  All  to  Love    Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 37 

Give  Me  the  Splendid  Silent  Sun  . .  Walt  Whitman 168 

Gloucester  Moors William  Vaughn  Moody 466 

God's  Gift Ernest  Crosby   371 

God,  Thou  art  Good Philip  Henry  Savage   461 

Golden  Fish,  The  ; George  Arnold 261 

Go  Sleep,  Ma  Honey Edward  D.  Barker 529 

Grape- Vine  Swing,  The William  Gilmore  Simms   48 

Grasshopper,  The Edith  Matilda  Thomas 365 

Graveyard  Rabbit,  The Frank  Lebby  Stanton 378 

Great  is  to-day John  Vance  Cheney 342 

Green  Inn,  The Theodosia  Garrison 530 

Grizzly .  Francis  Bret  Harte 292 

Happy  Women Phoebe  Cary    204 

Heart,  we  will  forget  him Emily  Dickinson 247 

Hills  of  Rest,  The    Albert  Bigelow  Paine 414 

Home  at  Night James  Whitcomb  Riley 360 

Homesick Howard  Weeden 498 

Honeysuckles Frank  Dempster  Sherman  ....  400 

Humble-Bee,  The Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 40 

Hyinn  to  the  Sea Anne  Whitney 209 

Ichabod, John  Greenleaf  Whittier 80 

Idler,  The Jones  Very   128 

If  I  can  stop  one  Heart  from 

breaking Emily  Dickinson 250 

"If  there  were  Dreams  to  Sell".  .Louise  Chandler  Moulton    .  . .  .267 
I  hear  America  singing Walt  Whitman 181 

[539] 


PAGE 

I'll  not  Confer  with  Sorrow Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 275 

Indian  Summer John  Banister  Tabb  333 

In  Dreams Martha      Gilbert       Dkkinson- 

Bianchi 517 

In  Extremis Alice  Brown  375 

Influence John  Banister  Tabb  335 

In  Praise  of  Death Walt  Whitman 182 

In  the  Haunts  of  Bass  and  Bream  .Maurice  Thompson    320 

In  the  Twilight James  Russell  Lowell 155 

In  the  Wheat-Field   .  .  .  . Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 241 

Israfel Edgar  Allan  Poe 102 

It  is  Long  Waiting Philip  Henry  Savage   460 

Joy  .  . Anne  Whitney 205 

Joy,  Shipmate,  Joy! Walt  Whitman 197 

Joys  of  the  Road,  The Bliss  Carman 436 

Kavanagh,  The .Bliss     Carman     and    Richard 

Hovey  442 

Kearsarge,  The James  Jeffrey  Roche 336 

Kentucky  Babe Richard  Henry  Buck   483 

Kindred   Abbie  Farwell  Brown 520 

Knee-deep  in  June James  Whitcomb  Riley 361 

Latter  Rain,  The Jones  Very 131 

Laus  Deo John  Greenleaf  Whittier 90 

Lexington John  Greenleaf  Whittier 86 

Least  of  Carols,  The Sophie  Jewett 415 

Life  Emily  Dickinson 245 

Life  Edward  Rowland  Sill 298 

Life  in  the  Autumn  Woods Philip  Pendleton  Cooke 136 

Life  on  the  Ocean  Wave,  A Epes  Sargent 132 

Light'ood  Fire,  The John  Henry  Boner  330 

Little  Beach-Bird,  The Richard  Henry  Dana 5 

Little  Boy  Blue   Eugene  Field : 353 

Little  Brothers  of  the  Ground  .  .  .Edwin  Markham 358 

Little  Parable,  A    Anne  Reeve  Aldrich 456 

Love  Triumphant Frederic  Lawrence  Knowles  .  .  .463 

Lucretius   Trumbull  Stickney   , , . ,  527 

[54o]- 


Lullaby Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 492 

Lydia Lizette  Woodworth  Reese   485 

Mayflowers,  The    John  Greenleaf  Whiltier 93 

Meadow  Lark,  The Hamlin  Garland  407 

Meadow-Larks Ina  Coolbrith 347 

Mint  Julep,  The , Charles  Fenno  Hoffman 54 

Miracles  Walt  Whitman 195 

Mocking-Bird,  The Paul  Hamilton  Hayne 243 

Monterey Charles  Fenno  Hoffman 52 

More  Ancient  Mariner,  A Bliss  Carman 432 

My  Catbird  . . .  ■ William  Henry  V enable 283 

My  Comrade James  Jeffrey  Roche 338 

My  Lost  Youth Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  .  .  74 

My  Maryland  .  .  .• James  Ryder  Randall .  289 

My  Mother's  Clothes Anna  Hempstead  Branch 521 

My  Mother's  Voice Jones  Very 129 

My  Old  Kentucky  Home Stephen  Collins  Foster 227 

Nature's  Hired  Man    John  Kendrick  Bangs 416 

Nearer  Home Phoebe  Cary    202 

Negro  Love  Song,  A Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 489 

New  York    Richard  Hovey 449 

Night-Watch,  The Martha   Gilbert   Dickinson- 

Bianchi 517 

O  Captain!  My  Captain!  Walt  Whitman 172 

Ode     recited     at     the     Harvard 

Commemoration James  Russell  Lowell 140 

Old  Folks  at  Home,  The Stephen  Collins  Foster 229 

Old  Ironsides Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 114 

Old  Times   Howard  Weeden   497 

Oliver  Basselin   Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  .  .68 

O  Magnet-South Walt  Whitman 191 

On  a  Honey  Bee Philip  Freneau   2 

On  entering  a  New  House    Herbert  Miiller  Hopkins    486 

On  the  Farm Madison  Cawein 454 

Opportunity .Edward  Rowland  Sill 301 

Other  World,  The Harriet  Elizabeth  Beecher  Stowe  126 

[541] 


PAGE 

Out    of    the    Rolling    Ocean    the 

Crowd Walt  Whitman 190 

Pandora's  Song William  Vaughn  Moody 480 

Pandora's  Song William  Vaughn  Moody 481 

Pan  in  Wall  Street Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  .  .  .255 

Passion-Flower,  The  .  .  .  , Margaret  Fidler 533 

Parting Emily  Dickinson 246 

Perfect  Lyric,  The Marion  Pelton  Guild 499 

Petrified  Fern,  The Mary  Lydia  Bolles  Branch.  .  .  .  295 

Philosopher,  A  John  Kendrick  Bangs    418 

Pioneers!  O  Pioneers!    Walt  Whitman    175 

Plantation  Ditty,  A Frank  Lebby  Stanton 377 

Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree,  The    William  Cullen  Bryant   19 

Possibilities   Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  .  .  73 

Prayer  of  Columbus Walt  Whitman 184 

Proem John  Greenleaf  Whittier 78 

Quicksand  Years Walt  Whitman 189 


Recollection Anne  Reeve  Aldrich 457 

Reformer,  The Edward  Rowland  Sill 302 

Renunciation Helen  Hay  Whitney 504 

Retrospect Edward  Rowland  Sill 299 

Road-Hymn  for  the  Start William  Vaughn  Moody 470 

Robert  of  Lincoln William  Cullen  Bryant   16 

Rosary,  The Robert  Cameron  Rogers   423 

Sandpiper,  The Celia  Thaxter 279 

Sceptics,  The Bliss  Carman 438 

Serenade,  A Edward  Coate  Pinkney 25 

She  came  and  went James  Russell  Lowell 139 

Sibylline  Bartering Edward  Rowland  Sill 297 

Silkweed Philip  Henry  Savage 458 

Singing  Man,  The    Josephine  Preston  Peabody  .  .  .507 

Sky  is  thick  upon  the  Sea,  The.  .Richard  Henry  Stoddard 222 

Solitude Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 372 

Song   Edward  Coate  Pinkney   26 

Song Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  .  .  72 

[542] 


Song   John  Shaw ,  .  4 

Song  at  the  Brink  of  Death Bertha  Frances  Gordon 526 

Song  before  Grief,  A Rose  Hawthorne  Lathrop 354 

Song  of  Steel,  The Charles  Buxton  Going    425 

Song  of  Summer Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 487 

Song  of  the  Ships Clinton  Scollard    401 

Song  of  the  Unsuccessful    Richard  Burton 397 

Song  of  the  Wandering  Dust  .  .  .  .Anna  Hempstead  Branch  .  .  .  .522 

Songs  Unsung Richard  Henry  Stoddard 220 

Sonnets  (from  the  series  relating 

To  Edgar  Allan  Poe) Sarah  Helen  Whitman 43 

Spell  of  the  Road,  The Charles  Buxton  Going 427 

Spinning Helen  Hunt  Jackson    251 

Spinster's  Stint,  A .Alice  Cary 199 

Spring Henry  Timrod 236 

Spring  Beauties,  The Helen  Gray  Cone 399 

Spring  Song Bliss  Carman  and  Richard 

Hovey   444 

Star  of  Calvary,  The Nathaniel  Hawthorne     45 

Stay-at-Home,  The    Josephine    Preston    Peabody 

Marks 505 

Strong  as  Death Henry  Cuyler  Bunner    367 

Sunrise Sidney  Lanier 310 

Supreme  Forgiveness,  The Florence  Wilkinson 502 

Swamp  Fox,  The   William  Gilmore  Simms   49 

Take  thou  this  Rose Raymond  Weeks 424 

Thanatopsis William  Cullen  Bryant   10 

Thanksgiving Katharine  Lee  Bates 393 

Thanksgiving William  Bean  Howells 286 

Thrall,  The Clinton  Scollard    404 

Tide  rises,  the  Tide  falls,  The  .  .Henry    Wadsworth  Longfellow  56 

Tiger-Lilies  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 272 

Time  to  tinker  'roun'! Paul  Laurence  Dunbar    490 

To  a  Butterfly James  Gates  Percival 22 

To  a  Friend  dying Robert  Bridges 387 

To  a  Late-Comer Julia  Caroline  Ripley  Dorr  .  .  .224 

To  a  Waterfowl William  Cullen  Bryant   13 

Toil  of  the  Trail,  The Hamlin  Garland 406 

[543] 


To  my  Cigar Charles  Sprague   8 

To  the  Boy   Elizabeth  Clementine  Kinney    .122 

To  The  Dandelion James  Russell  Lowell  158 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian William  Cullen  Bryant    15 

To  the  Man-of- War-Bird   Walt  Whitman 171 

To  the  Mocking-Bird Richard  Henry  Wilde 7 

Touch  of  Nature,  A Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 274 

Trailing  Arbutus,  The John  Greenleaf  Whitticr    88 

Twilight  at  Sea Amelia  Coppuck  Welby 160 

Twilight  Song Edwin  Arlington  Robinso.i.  .  .  .464 

Ulalume Edgar  Allan  Poe no 

Ultimate  Love,  The Marion  Pelton  Guild 500 

Unity John  Greenleaf  Whittier 89 

Valiant,  The   Mark  Howe 430 

Vesper  Sparrow,  The Edith  Matilda  Thomas 366 

Violet,  The William  Wetmore  Story 166 

Virginians  of  the  Valley,  The    .  .  .Francis  Orrery  Ticknor 218 

Voice  of  the  Grass,  The    Sarah  Roberts  Boyle 124 

Voice  of  the  Sea,  The Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 273 

Waiting John  Burroughs    281 

Waldeinsamkeit Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 28 

Wall  Street  Pit,  The Edwin  Mark  ham 356 

Warble  for  Lilac-Time Walt  Whitman 193 

Watcher,  The   Martha      Gilbert      Dickinson- 

Bianchi 518 

Wayfarer,  The Helen  Hay  Whitney  503 

Wayside,  The   James  Herbert  Morse  ........  305 

Weave  in,  my  Hardy  Life    Walt  Whitman    188 

Westward  Ho! Joaquin  Miller 303 

When  Clover  Blooms James  B.  Kenyon    384 

When  de  Co'n  Pone's  Plot Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 494 

When  in  the  Night  we  wake  and 

hear  the  Rain Robert  Burns  Wilson 348 

"  When  the  Girls  come  to  the  Old 

House  " Richard  Watson  Gilder 327 

Whippoorwill,  The Madison  Cawein 452 

[  544  ] 


Wild  Eden   Emily  Dickinson 249 

Wild  Eden George  Edward  Woobberry  .  .  .  .368 

Wild  Honeysuckle,  The Philip  Freneau 1 

Wild  Nights Emily  Dickinson    249 

Wild  Ride,  The Louise  Imogen  Guiney 408 

Windy  Night,  The Thomas  Buchanan  Read 216 

Wine  and  Dew Richard  Henry  Stoddard 223 

Winter  Wish,  A    Robert  Hinckley  Messinger .  .  .  .133 

Wishing  Song,  A Joel  Chandler  Harris 339 

Wistful  Days,  The Robert  Underwood  Johnson  .  .  .359 

With  a  Nantucket  Shell    Charles  Henry  Webb  263 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod    .  .  .  .Eugene  Field 351 

You  and  To-day Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 373 

Youth,  Day,  Old  Age,  and  Night .  .  Walt  Whitman 183 


[545 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 

PAGE 

A  batter'd,  wrecked  old  man    184 

Above  long  woodland  ways  that  led 452 

A  brave  little  bird  that  fears  not  God 407 

Across  the  eastern  sky  has  glowed   345 

Across  the  narrow  beach  we  flit 279 

A  day  and  then  a  week  passed  by 95 

A  fire-mist  and  a  planet 391 

A  golden  pallor  of  voluptuous  light 243 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave 132 

All's  to  gain    . . . . : 208 

Along  yon  soft  tumultuousness,  the  Dawn 209 

Aloof,  I  heard 404 

Alow  and  aloof  216 

Alter?    When  the  hills  do 248 

A  man  should  live  in  a  garret  aloof 276 

A  mile  behind  is  Gloucester  town 466 

A  ruddy  drop  of  manly  blood 39 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 139 

As  in  a  rose-jar  filled  with  petals  sweet 525 

As  toilsome  I  wander'd  Virginia's  woods 198 

A  stone  jug  and  a  pewter  mug 442 

After  usin'  de  spring  fer  a  lookin'-glass 339 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down! 114 

Because  one  creature  of  His  breath 480 

Bedtime's  come  fu'  little  boys 492 

Before  I  leap  and  lose  myself  below    526 

Before  the  monstrous  wrong  he  sets  him  down  302 

Beyond  the  last  horizon's  rim 414 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 82 

Blown  out  of  the  prairie  in  twilight  and  dew 294 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee 40 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river 231 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood 27 

[547] 


PAGE 

Calm  as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 234 

Come,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree 19 

Come  my  tan-faced  children .\  .  ■ 175 

Comrades,  pour  the  wine  to-night 440 

Coward,  —  of  heroic  size 292 

Darest  thou  now,  O  soul 174 

Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days 32 

Days  that  come  and  go 341 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way 158 

Deep  in  the  man  sits  fast  his  fate 36 

De  gray  owl  sing  fum  de  chimbly  top: 377 

De  massa  ob  de  sheepfoP 380 

Dey  is  times  in  life  when  Nature 494 

Diggin'  in  the  earth 416 

Dis  is  gospel  weathah  sho'  — 487 

Dreams  come  true,  and  everything 320 

Fair  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow 1 

Fate,  the  gray  Sibyl,  with  kind  eyes  above 297 

Fellowship,  The 394 

Food  for  the  horses  —  lots  of  it  —  upon  the  bluff .  .419 

Forenoon  and  afternoon  and  night,  —  Forenoon    298 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  our  severing  ways 89 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 225 

From  towered  battlement  I  sweep  the  plain 518 

Give  all  to  love 37 

Give  me  the  splendid  silent  sun  with  all  his  beams  full-dazzling.  .  168 

God,  Thou  art  good,  but  not  to  me 461 

Gray  strength  of  years! 205 

Half  way  to  happiness 503 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys 117 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun? 35 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells 104 

Heart,  we  will  forget  him! 247 

He  cannot  as  he  came  depart 335 

Helen's  lips  are  drifting  dust 463 

[548] 


PAGE 

Here 259 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere 124 

He  sang  above  the  vineyards  of  the  world 507 

He  sang  a  song  as  he  sowed  the  field 454 

How  can  it  be  that  I  forget 457 

How  fierce  the  storm  that  starless  night 429 

I  am  not  one,  but  many :  murmuring  through 395 

I  do  not  count  the  hours  I  spend 28 

I  feel  a  poem  in  my  heart  to-night 253 

If  I  can  stop  one  heart  from  breaking 250 

If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays 31 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell : 267 

I  haven't  cooked  a  'Possum  —  Lord! 497 

I  have  waited,  I  have  longed 505 

I  hear  America  singing,  the  varied  carols  I  hear    181 

I  hear  in  my  heart,  I  hear  in  its  ominous  pulses 408 

I  idle  stand  that  I  may  find  employ 128 

I  lay  in  silence,  dead.     A  woman  came 319 

I  like  not  lady-slippers 272 

I'll  not  confer  with  Sorrow .  275 

I  long  to  see  a  cotton-field 498 

I  love  the  old  melodious  lays 78 

I  made  the  cross  myself  whose  weight 456 

Impatient  women,  as  you  wait 204 

In  a  valley,  centuries  ago 295 

In  dreams  we  lost  all  hindering  mortal  sway 518 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 102 

In  my  sleep  I  was  fain  of  their  fellowship,  fain 310 

In  the  gloomy  ocean  bed 336 

In  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 273 

In'the  Valley  of  the  Vire 68 

In  the  white  moonlight,  where  the  willow  waves 378 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went   309 

I  remember  my  cry  at  the  cardinal  flower  .  .  .  .  > 501 

I  see  the  hell  of  faces  surge  and  whirl 356 

I  send  thee  a  shell  from  the  ocean  beach 263 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air 62 

I  sicken  of  men's  company 530 

[  549  ] 


PAGE 

I  stood  on  the  bridge  at  midnight 59 

I  stood  within  the  heart  of  God    481 

It  came  upon  the  midnight  clear 120 

It  comes  from  childhood  land 366 

It  is  done! 90 

It  is  long  waiting  for  the  dear  companions 460 

It  is  the  same  infrequent  star,  —    45 

It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud,  — 126 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago 108 

It  was  the  little  leaves  beside  the  road 438 

I  wander  through  the  woodland  ways 520 

I  wandered  lonely  where  the  pine-trees  made 88 

I  wish  I  were  the  little  key 287 

I  would  not  have  you  mourn  too  much 269 

Joy,  shipmate,  joy! 197 

Just  above  yon  sandy  bar 71 

Just  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 255 

Knock  at  my  heart,  and  I  will  ope 532 

Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you   372 

Leave  the  early  bells  at  chime 470 

Let  no  poet,  great  or  small 220 

Lighter  than  dandelion  down 458 

Like  a  blind  spinner  in  the  sun 251 

Like  Shakespeare's  lark,  that  sweeps  into  the  blue    499 

Lithe  and  long  as  the  serpent  train 48 

Little  ants  in  leafy  wood 358 

Little  masters,  hat  in  hand 332 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 33 

Lo!  Death  has  reared  himself  a  throne 100 

Look  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love 25 

Lord,  for  the  erring  thought 286 

Love  is  a  little  golden  fish 261 

Loveliest  dawn  of  gold  and  rose 415 

Lydia  is  gone  this  many  a  year 485 

Make  me  over,  mother  April    444 

Mark  you  those  kindling  eyes  with  love  light  brave  — 517 

[550]' 


PAGE 

Men  say  the  sullen  instrument 155 

Merrily  swinging  on  brier  and  weed 16 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord 164 

My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee 98 

My  life  closed  twice  before  its  close 246 

My  love  gave  me  a  passion-flower 533 

My  mother's  voice!    I  hear  it  now 129 

No  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they 86 

No  more  the  battle  or  the  chase  333 

Not  all  which  we  have  been 299 

Not  for  the  star-crowned  heroes,  the  men  that  conquer  and  slay  430 

Not  from  the  pestilence  and  storm 375 

Not  what  I  ask,  but  what  I  do  not  ask  504 

Now  the  joys  of  the  road  are  chiefly  these 436 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done 172 

O  curfew  of  the  setting  sun!    O  Bells  of  Lynn! 57 

O  death  when  thou  shalt  come  to  me 367 

O  faint,  delicious,  spring-time  violet    166 

O  fresh,  how  fresh  and  fair 239 

Often  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 74 

O  hearken,  all  ye  little  weeds  .  v 3  74 

Old  wine  to  drink! 133 

O  life,  so  dearly  ours 307 

O  little  town  of  Bethlehem 265 

O  magnet-South!     O  glistening  perfumed  South! 191 

On  and  on,  in  sun  and  shade     344 

One  on  another  against  the  wall 200 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 202 

On  our  lone  pathway  bloomed  no  earthly  hopes 43 

Our  share  of  night  to  bear 245 

Out  of  the  dusk  a  shadow 331 

Out  of  the  rolling  ocean  the  crowd  came  a  drop  gently  to  me  ...  190 

Out  on  a  world  that  has  run  to  weed! 342 

Overloaded,  undermanned 410 

O  world,  thou  choosest  not  the  better  part 428 

Peace  to  this  house  where  we  shall  enter  in! 486 

[551] 


PAGE 

Pipe,  little  minstrels  of  the  waning  year 262 

Piper  of  the  fields  and  woods 382 

Praised  be  the  fathomless  universe  182 

Prime  cantante ! 283 

Quicksand  years  that  whirl  me  I  know  not  whither 189 

Room  for  a  soldier!  lay  him  in  the  clover 161 

Sad  Mayflower!  watched  by  winter  stars 93 

Seen  my  lady  home  las'  night 489 

Serene,  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait 281 

Shuttle  of  the  sunburnt  grass, 365 

Simon  Danz  has  come  home  again 65  , 

Six  skeins  and  three,  six  skeins  and  three! 199 

'Skeeters  am  a-hummin'  on  de  honey-suckle  vine,  — 483 

Slow  Spring  that,  slipping  thro'  the  silver  light 527 

So  fallen!  so  lost!  the  light  withdrawn 80 

Soft-footed  through  forest  and  bracken 427 

Softly  now  the  light  of  day 24 

Sorrow,  my  friend 354 

Spring,  with  that  nameless  pathos  in  the  air   236 

Stay,  stay,  at  home  my  heart,  and  rest 72 

Strawberry-flower  and  violet 496 

Summah's  nice,  wif  sun  a-shinin' 490 

Summer  has  gone 136 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     O  happy  that  I  am  . 347 

Take  thou  this  rose,  sweetheart!  424 

Tell  you  what  I  like  the  best  —  361 

That  gentle  lady,  whose  tempestuous  throne 500 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore 289 

The  first  time,  when  at  night  I  went  about 285 

The  great  ships  go  a-shouldering 401 

The  hours  I  spent  with  thee,  dear  heart -,-  v.-  •  •  423 

The  knightliest  of  the  knightly  race , .; .  , ....  218 

The  latter  rain,  —  it  falls  in  anxious  haste 131 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust    353 

The  love  of  man  and  woman  is  as  fire.  .  ... ...  ....  .....  .  .,. .338 

[552] 


PAGE 

The  low  line  of  the  walls  that  lie  outspread    449 

The  Puritan  spring  Beauties  stood  freshly  clad  for  church 399 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 271 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses 219 

There  are  some  quiet  ways  — 305 

There  is  a  garden  enclosed 368 

There's  a  song  in  the  air! 163 

The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars 63 

The  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober no 

The  sky  is  thick  upon  the  sea '.....  222 

The  sun  shines  bright  in  the  old  Kentucky  home 227 

The  swarthy  bee  is  a  buccaneer 432 

The  tide  rises,  the  tide  falls 56 

The  twilight  hours,  like  birds,  flew  by 160 

They  have  forgiven  me,  these  that  I  have  wronged 502 

They  tell  you  that  Death's  at  the  turn  of  the  road 387 

This  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream 301 

This  is  our  child,  Dear  —  flesh  of  our  flesh  and  bone  of  our  bone  386 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign    . , 115 

This,  then,  is  she 472 

Thou  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew 15 

Thou  born  to  sip  the  lake  or  spring 2 

Thou  happiest  thing  alive 122 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea 5 

Thou  who  hast  slept  all  night  upon  the  storm ^171 

Thou,  who  in  the  early  spring 22 

Through  the  shine,  through  the  rain    464 

'Tis  said  that  the  gods  on  Olympus  of  old  — 54 

To  give  God  thanks  when  brief,  oblivious  nights 393 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  nature,  holds 10 

To  take  things  as  they  be 418 

Warble  me  now  for  joy  of  lilac-time 193 

Way  down  upon  de  Swanee  Ribber 229 

Weak-winged  is  song 140 

We  are  of  one  kindred,  wheresoe'er  we  be 522 

We  are  the  toilers  from  whom  God  barred 397 

Weave  in,  weave  in,  my  hardy  life 188 

We  break  the  glass,  whose  sacred  wine    ,,,,,,,,, 26 

[553] 


PAGE 

We  follow  where  the  Swamp  Fox  guides 49 

We  were  not  many,  —  we  who  stood  — 52 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn 270 

What  have  I  gained  by  the  toil  of  the  trail? 406 

What  is  there  wanting  in  the  spring? 359 

What  strength!  what  strife!  what  rude  unrest! .303 

When  brambles  vex  me  sore  and  anguish  me 394 

When  clover  blooms  in  the  meadows    384 

When  chirping  crickets  fainter  cry 360 

When  first  the  crocus  thrusts  its  point  of  gold  274 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain 348 

When  I  was  small,  my  mother's  clothes 521 

When  the  feud  of  hot  and  cold : 254 

When  the  girls  come 327 

When  the  lids  of  the  virgin  Dawn  unclose 241 

When  wintry  days  are  dark  and  drear 330 

Where  are  the  Poets,  unto  whom  belong 73 

"Where  is  my  gift,"  said  God,  "that  I  gave  to  men  — 371 

Where  wast  thou,  little  song 334 

Whipp'will's  singin'  to  de  moon,  —     529 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 13 

Who  has  robbed  the  ocean  cave 4 

Why  didst  thou  come  into  my  life  so  late? 224 

Why,  who  makes  much  of  a  miracle? 195 

Wild  nights!     Wild  nights!    249 

Wind  of  the  North 389 

Winged  mimic  of  the  woods!  thou  motley  fool!     7 

With  every  rising  of  the  sun 373 

Within  a  belfry  built  of  bloom    400 

Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 351 

Yea,  art  thou  lord,  O  man,  since  Tubal  Cain 425 

Yes,  social  friend,  I  love  thee  well    8 

You  may  drink  to  your  leman  in  gold 223 

Youth,    large,    lusty,    loving  —  youth    full    of    grace,    force, 

fascination 183 

You  to  the  left  and  I  to  the  right 450 


554 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 

PAGES 

Aldrich,  Anne  Reeve 456,  457 

Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey 270,  271,  272,  273,  274,  275,  276 

Arnold,  George 259,  261 

Bangs,  John  Kendrick 416,  418 

Barker,  Edward  D , 529 

Bates,  Katharine  Lee 393,  394 

Benton,  Joel 254 

Bierce,  Ambrose 319 

Boner,  John  Henry 330 

Boyle,  Sarah  Roberts 124 

Branch,  Anna  Hempstead 521,522 

Branch,  Mary  Lydia  Bolles 295 

Bridges,  Robert 386,  387 

Brooks,  Bishop  Phillips 265 

Brown,  Abbie  Farwell 520 

Brown,  Alice 374, 375 

Bryant,  William  Cullen 10,  13,  15,  16,  19 

Buck,  Richard  Henry 483 

Bunner,  Henry  Cuyler 367 

Burroughs,  John 281 

Burton,  Richard 395,  397 

Carman,  Bliss 432,  436,  438,  440,  442,  444 

Carruth,  William  Herbert 391 

Cary,  Alice 199,  200 

Cary,  Phoebe 202,  204 

Cawein,  Madison 452, 454 

Cheney,  John  Vance 341,  342,  344 

Cone,  Helen  Gray 399 

Cooke,  Philip  Pendleton 136 

COOLBRITH,    INA 347 

Crosby,  Ernest .371 

[555] 


PAGES 

Dana,  Richard  Henry 5 

Day,  Thomas  Fleming 4IO 

DlCKINSON-BlANCHI,  MARTHA    GILBERT    517,  5^ 

Dickinson,  Emily 245,  246,  247,  248,  249,  250 

Doane,  George  Washington 24 

Dorr,  Julia  Caroline  Ripley 224 

Dunbar,  Paul  Laurence 487,  489,  490,  492,  494 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo 27,  28,  31,  32,  33,  25,  36,  37,  39,  40 

Field,  Eugene 35^  353 

Finch,  Francis  Miles 231 

Foster,  Stephen  Collins 227,  229 

Freneau,  Phild? i,  2 

Fuller,  Margaret 532,  533 

Gallagher,  William  Davis 95 

Garland,  Hamlin 406, 407 

Garrison,  Theodosia 530 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson 327 

Going,  Charles  Buxton 425,427 

Gordon,  Bertha  Frances 526 

Green,  Sarah  Pratt  McLean 380 

Guild,  Marion  Pelton 499,  500 

Guiney,  Louise  Imogen 408 

Harris,  Joel  Chandler 339 

Harte,  Francis  Bret 292,  294 

Hawthorne,  Nathanlel 45 

Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton 239,  241,  243 

Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno 52,  54 

Holland,  Josiah  Gilbert 163 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell 114,  115,  117 

Hopkins,  Herbert  Muller 486 

Hovey,  Richard 440,  442,  444,  448,  450 

Howe,  Julia  Ward 164 

Howe,  Mark 429,  430 

Howells,  William  Dean 285,  286 

Jackson,  Helen  Hunt 251 

[556] 


PAGES 

Jewett,  Sophie 4X5 

Johnson,  Robert  Underwood 359 

Jones,  Thomas  S.,  Jr : 525 

Kenyon,  James  B 382,  384 

Kimball,  Harriet  McEwen 262 

Kinney,  Elizabeth  Clementine 122 

Knowles,  Frederic  Lawrence 463 

Lanier,  Sidney 309,  310 

Lathrop,  Rose  Hawthorne 354 

Lazarus,  Emma 345 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth 56,  57,  59,  62,  63,  65, 

68,  71,  72,  73,  74 

Lowell,  James  Russell 139,  140,  155,  158 

Luders,  Charles  Henry 389 

Mackaye,  Percy 496 

Markham,  Edwin 356,  358 

Marks,  Josephine  Preston  Peabody 505,  507 

Messenger,  Robert  Hinckley 133 

Miller,  Joaquin 303 

Moody,  William  Vaughn 466, 470,  472,  480, 481 

Morse,  James  Herbert 305,  307 

Moulton,  Louise  Chandler 267,  269 

Paine,  Albert  Bigelow 414 

Palmer,  Ray 98 

Parsons,  Thomas  William 161 

Perceval,  James  Gates 22 

Pinkney,  Edward  Coate 25,  26 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan 100,  102,  104,  108,  no 

Randall,  James  Ryder 289 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan : 216 

Reese,  Lizette  Woodworth 485 

Riley,  James  Whitcomb 360,  361 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington 464 

Roche,  James  Jeffrey 336,  338 

[557] 


PAGES 


Rogers,  Robert  Cameron 4i9)  423 

Ryan,  Abram  Joseph 287 

Santayana  George, 428 

Sargent,  Epes 132 

Savage,  Philip  Henry 458,  460,  461 

Scollard,  Clinton 401, 404 

Sears,  Edmund  Hamilton 12o 

Shaw,  John 4 

Sherman,  Frank  Dempster 400 

Sell,  Edward  Rowland 297,  298,  299,  301,  302 

Simms,  William  Gllmore 48,  49 

Sprague,  Charles 8 

Stanton,  Frank  Lebby 377,  378 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence 255 

Stickney,  Trumbull 527 

Stoddard,  Richard  Henry 219,  220 

Story,  William  Wetmore 166 

Stowe,  Harriet  Elizabeth  Beecher , 126 

Tabb,  John  Banister    331,  332,  333,  334,  335 

Taylor,  Bayard 225 

Thaxter,  Celia 279 

Thomas,  Edith  Matilda 365,  366 

Thompson,  Maurice 320 

Ticknor,  Francis  Orrery    218 

Tlmrod,  Henry 234,  236 

Townsend,  Mary  Ashley 253 

Venable,  William  Henry 283 

Very,  Jones 12S,  129,  131 

Webb,  Charles  Henry 263 

Weeden,  Howard 497,  498 

Weeks,  Raymond 424 

Welby,  Amelia  B 160 

Whitman,  Sarah  Helen 43 

Whitman,  Walt  168,  171,  172,  174, 

175,  181,  182,  183,  184,  188,  189,  190,  191,  193,  195,  197,  198 

[558] 


PAGES 

Whitney,  Anne 205,  208,  209 

Whitney,  Helen  Hay 503,  504 

Whittier,  John  Greenleaf 78,  80,  82,  86,  88,  89,  90,  93 

Wilcox,  Ella  Wheeler 372,  373 

Wilde,  Richard  Henry 7 

Wilkinson,  Florence 501,  502 

Wilson,  Robert  Burns 348 

woodberry,  george  edward 368 


[559 


NOV  29   1912 


The  Country  Life  Press 
Garden  City,  N.  Y. 


LEJe'1.9 


/  C    /     -,~